


The Messenger

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At first only a crush John has on Sherlock, Based on tv movie The Go-Between, Character Death, Falling In Love, Forced Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual love comes later, Mycroft's Meddling, POV John Watson, Pining John, Secrets, Teen John Watson, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13716789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Summer in Norfolk in the year of 1900. 14-year old John Watson follows his friend Mike to upper class residence, Donnithorpe, to spend the holiday. There he experiences a whole new world, with different social rules and forbidden feelings simmering beneath the surface. And he meets a group of people who will change his view of love forever, one person in particular: the 17-year old Sherlock Holmes who spends his last days at the estate passing the time by exchanging mysterious letters with a man named Victor Trevor.Based on the tv movie The Go-Between (2015 version)





	1. Early days

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fic. My love of both BBC-series Sherlock and the TV adaptation of The Go-Between (2015 version) is the origin of this story. Not only am I not from Britain, but I'm not even from an English-speaking country so I apologize beforehand for any mistakes, both grammatical but also cultural. I indulged in the joy of writing this rather than Britpicking or putting any extra effort in to grammar. Hopefully it works anyway :)

Mike Stamford was my closest friend when I was 14.  
From a far wealthier background than myself but never posh or condescending about it, we found each other quite incidentally as the two newcomers to Bramblefield during the autumn of a cold and unforgiving year that had forced me not only to abandon my mother’s home but also my sister, to go to this wretched facility called a boarding school. There I was far inferior than most, in both rank and finance, but also physically, as Mike and I were among the shortest of the bunch and he also had the misfortune to be rather plump, to the great joy of all bullies assembled there during our first schoolyear.  
This was the starting point of our acquaintance, but it soon developed into a genuine friendship and by the time spring burst into summer and our first schoolyear was at an end, it was decided that I should join him for the holiday to a place in Norfolk where relatives of his were residing.  
The place was called Donnithorpe, an ancestral manor in the depths of the area, and even if he had described the place beforehand, nothing could prepare me for the amazement I felt when I first saw its silhouette ascend behind the threes on our way there. It was magnificent and far grander than I could have ever anticipated. I could hardly fathom that I was going to spend my whole summer there, in this mansion sprung right out of a fairytale, complete with towers, a maze in the garden, luscious trees and an enormous fountain in front of it. 

Mike’s parents lived in India and had sent their only son to England for a proper education. Instead of transferring him back home when summer came, and the monsoon season ravaged their residence outside Bombay, Mike was to spend his holiday with relatives in Norfolk, in the care of the Holmes family, a couple by the name of Vernet as well as some other acquaintances.  
They in turn rented the house from a Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen who was the real owner of the estate. It had once belonged to the Holmes family, but some sort of financial crisis and bad luck had forced them to sell it to Mr Magnussen a couple of years ago. The man himself had not been in England at the time of the purchase but abroad, fighting in the Boer war, therefore he had accepted that the family continued living there as long as he remained out of the country. 

“It’s the grandest estate in all of Norfolk my father says. Mrs. Holmes was quite heartbroken when forced to give it up, even if the family was allowed to stay on for a couple of years,” Mike told me as we sat in the carriage, taking us from the train station to our new home for the next couple of weeks.  
Mr and Mrs Holmes died two years ago, leaving behind two sons who now lived on the estate but really had nowhere to go after summer was over, as the real owner, Mr Magnussen, finally had returned to England and was eager to settle down. He had been most generous and even allowed the brothers to stay during the whole summer, but time was swiftly running out and even if no one talked about it publicly, it was a great mystery as to where they would end up when autumn came.  
Mycroft Holmes was the older son. 24 years of age but looking slightly older. Tall and somewhat plump, with a stern and serious face, adorned with an unfortunate beak of a nose and a weak chin, black receding hair, hinting of auburn and a faint spatter of freckles, he still managed to look quite regal despite his appearance. His bearing saved him from falling prey to looks that easily could have made him seem ridiculous. Instead he carried himself with an air bordering on pompousness and fully managed an expression that made the people around him cower in respect if he demanded it.  
Mike, who had met him several times over the years, said that he was a man of former glory that unfortunately had a hard time accepting his fate, despite otherwise being a very intelligent man, and he often lamented the fact that he had nothing in this world but himself, his younger brother and the small collection of heirlooms their parents had managed to save from the economical ruination.  
It was a lot to take in and Mike didn’t even manage to scratch the surface of the whole story during the ride over, since two boys of 14 naturally had other things to talk about too.  
Mycroft Holmes was the first person I saw when we arrived in front of the entrance. I recognized him immediately after the way Mike had described him, all the way down to the prominent nose and the way he carried himself, it could be no one else. He stood on top of the stairs, dressed in a tweed suit, for the weather was yet not very warm despite the summer month and when I looked up at him, while handing my suitcase from school to the butler, I felt his scrutinizing stare as he observed us. He managed to disappear inside the house before we got a chance to introduce me though, so I got the feeling that he wasn’t too happy about the fact that we had arrived.  
“Are you sure that it’s alright that I came with you here to spend the summer?” I asked, a little nervously, but Mike just beamed at me and nodded.  
“Of course! We are the only children here and the grown-ups are glad if they are unburdened with the chore of entertaining me all summer. I wasn’t here last year, but two summers ago it was dreadfully boring without anyone to play with. Sherlock was only 15 back then but he had no interest in hanging around with me all day long. Besides, Mr and Mrs Holmes died that spring so the whole house was still in mourning during my visit.”  
“Sherlock?”  
“Mycroft’s younger brother. Although they don’t look like brothers at all. You’ll see when you meet him. He’s quite… special.”  
The other residents of the house consisted of a Mr Gregory Lestrade, Mr Philip Anderson and his sister Anthea, two older cousins from the maternal side of the Holmes family by the name of Vernet and then of course the owner himself, Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen. He hadn’t really moved in yet and temporarily resided in a smaller house on the other side of the forest, Beecham Cottage, with an acquaintance, but he was free to come and go as he pleased while giving the two Holmes brothers time to prepare for their evacuation. Right now, he was apparently in London, conducting some business, but he was expected to arrive any day.  
Mike and I were given shared accommodations in one of the towers and after taking a compulsory jump upon the enormous bed (at 14 we were a bit too old for that, but Mike insisted on it being a ritual he indulged in whenever he came to visit) he took me out to the roof terrace to show me the landscape that stretched far and wide. It was up there that he told me about the other residents of the household, including the members of staff that he was surprisingly familiar with despite only being an occasional summer guest.  
It was on the way down again, through one of the enormous windows, that I first spotted him.  
I didn’t know who he was then of course, but years later I would still remember that first sight I caught of him, languidly gliding down the stairs outside, towards a group of people gathered in the garden. He was the most beautiful person I had ever laid eyes on and like no one I had ever seen before. Tall and willowy, with a slender frame and graceful movements, he descended the stairs, more like a cat than a human really. The hair was a cascade of curls the color of ebony, a stark contrast to his very fair skin with it’s delicate features consisting of high cheekbones, a pouty mouth and the most mesmerizing set of eyes I had ever seen. The sun made his hair shimmer in the light and the white shirt he was wearing showed off some pale skin at the collar, as he hadn’t bothered to button up properly. Beside the shirt he wore a pair of linen trousers with a belt that casually showed of his slim waist and he had both hands nonchalantly in his pockets as he loitered down the final steps and reached the lawn. Considering the clothing of all the other men, including me and Mike who were still in our school uniforms, his outfit seemed almost improper in its casualness. Mycroft with his tweed outfit and the other men in waistcoats and jackets, seemed overdressed in comparison, although they were the ones with the correct attire.  
“Who is that?” I whispered in awe.  
I couldn’t help how my voice sounded full of admiration at the sight of him, but Mike didn’t comment on it, just cast a look outside the window to see what I was staring at.  
“Oh, that’s Sherlock.”  
“That’s Sherlock?”  
Mike hadn’t been wrong when mentioning that the brothers looked nothing alike. They almost seemed like different species.  
“Told you he was special,” Mike said. “But frankly, what I meant was more concerning his personality. “  
“What about it?”  
“You’ll see eventually. My mother says he’s the combination of a fox and a Tasmanian devil.”  
“What does that mean?”  
“I’m not sure,” Mike shrugged, as if never contemplating the rather strange comparison his mother had made.” He’s almost as smart as his brother, but in a different way, so maybe that’s the fox part. He’s a bit sneaky too, can’t be trusted really. And he can be brutal sometimes. Does not suffer fools gladly and isn’t afraid to show it either.”  
I looked out the window again and tried to piece together this information with the stunning creature gliding like a feline among the other guests in the garden. He didn’t look brutal at all, but I guess you had to experience him first hand to be the judge of that.  
“Now, let’s go out and introduce you to everyone,” Mike beckoned, and I turned away from the window to follow him outside.  
As we came down and joined the others out on the lawn, I could see Sherlock brushing past his brother, who was sitting down by a small table with a glass of something sparkling in front of him. I had never tasted alcohol before and briefly wondered if this might be the first time for me. It felt like the right place to indulge in novelties of all sorts.  
“Sherlock! How nice of you to finally join us,” Mycroft said, as his younger brother didn’t stop or acknowledge him when passing. “Did you know that Charles is coming on Saturday? I’m sure he would be pleased to see you, as he managed to miss you the last time he was here.”  
“Yes, how unfortunate,” I heard Sherlock mumble, as he continued away from his brother, toward a man with short brown hair who stood further apart from the others, cigarette in hand and a friendly face.  
“I’m sure you’ll be willing to compensate for that mishap, won’t you?” Mycroft tried but Sherlock ignored him in favor of the other man and Mycroft gave up his attempt at getting his brother’s attention and instead turned toward Mike and myself.  
“It’s rather stuffy outside today, even if the true summer heat hasn’t arrived yet. Go ask for some lemonade, Mike. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson could provide some from the kitchen.” The he turned his attention to me. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, as I’m sure Mike has already informed you.”  
“Well, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes. My name is John Watson,” I stuttered and started to put forward my hand, but Mycroft had already turned his attention back to Mike again. He patted him firmly on the back in a gesture that could have been described as a show of affection if he didn’t make it look so opposite of that, more in line with a physical reprimand of sorts, even though Mike hardly would have had the time to do something to be reprimanded for. Then he swiveled his eyes back to me again.  
“So, Mike here says you are a magician, John.”  
I felt a blush creeping up my cheeks. I hadn’t counted on information going both ways and this particular detail I would have preferred to keep between me and Mike. It was one thing mucking about in school with a bunch of tarot cards and a book of spells I had bought from an old curiosity shop at home. It was quite a different matter acknowledging it in front of this crowd, with their fancy clothes, impeccable manners and stretched out vowels, that I dabbled in magic and read books about old folklore. It felt stupid and childish and I wished Mike hadn’t said anything about it.  
“Oh, no. it’s nothing really…,” I tried, but Mike would have none of that.  
“Don’t be so modest, John! He’s really good! He put a curse on Stapleton and Smith for bullying us and the next day they fell down a roof. “  
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sherlock walking towards us now, hands still in his pockets, curiosity obviously peaked.  
“Well, I hope you won’t be putting any curses on us while you’re here, John,” Mycroft said wryly. I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg or if he was seriously worried that I would start waving a wand around the house, casting spells all over the place.  
“Don’t worry. Only at school,” I assured him and shot my friend a stern look, willing him to shut up, but Mike was on a roll now, eager to share all the details, oblivious to my wish to drop the subject.  
“He could have killed them if he had wanted to. In fact, he was rather generous for not doing so, they were horrible bullies, wouldn’t you agree, John?”  
I wished Mike would just shut his mouth. It didn’t feel right making a first impression to these people as some sort of vengeful child magician with a penchant for torturing bullies, even if at the time, it had felt quite pleasing seeing two of the most obnoxious boys at school limping around on crutches. I hadn’t nearly as much magical powers as Mike believed I had, it was probably purely accidental that Stapleton and Smith happened to fall off the roof the day after I tried out a spell on them. Hearing about it now, outside the very limited world of our boarding school, it all sounded very silly.  
“Well, you must be very powerful,” I heard a baritone voice purr behind me. As I turned around, there he was, right behind me. The tantalizing Sherlock Holmes. My blush deepened even more under his scrutinizing gaze. He looked intrigued by Mike’s boasting of my powers.  
“I wish you could have been at my school. There were some boys who definitely deserved a curse or two while I was a pupil. Idiots of course, but still. Would have been satisfying to witness.”  
“Sherlock, don’t talk such nonsense,” Mycroft chided but Sherlock ignored him.  
“You must teach me some time. Maybe put a spell on the weather?” Sherlock gazed pointedly to the sky.” It would be lovely to have a hot summer for once. This place is awfully drafty and damp when it’s raining. Wouldn’t like to spend my last summer here cooped up inside all the time.”  
Something resembling a fleeting look of pain crossed Mycroft’s features at Sherlock’s words, but it was gone in a second and replaced by his usual aloofness once more. Sherlock looked down on me and I felt pinned to the ground by the intensity in his eyes. It was almost a bit dizzying.  
“Could you do that for me, John?”  
Everything he said sounded like purring, the deep voice resonating between his vocal chords in a way resembling a snake charmer mesmerizing his pet with a flute. My tongue got stuck in my mouth and my mind went totally blank as I watched his eyes seemingly change color right in front of me. They were a strange mix of blue, green and grey with flecks of golden amber in them, one second intensely blue, the next a calming green.  
“I could try,” I finally managed to squawk, and he smiled at me, causing me to bite my tongue to prevent me from giggling in return. Giggling! Like a silly schoolgirl. Pathetic…  
At that precise moment I felt as if I would do anything Sherlock Holmes asked of me. I had never felt anything like it before, almost as if standing in a tidal wave, or as I imagined standing in a tidal wave would feel like. It was overwhelming, I didn’t know what had come over me and it made be gasp for air afterwards, when he moved on and left me standing alone with Mike and Mycroft. Mycroft gave me a frowning look before also walking away.  
As I later that evening lay in the bed I shared with Mike and thought about the look Sherlock gave me as he purred my name, it suddenly hit me that I might have fallen in love, for the very first time.  
I didn’t know what loving someone for real felt like, because I hadn’t loved anyone but my mother and sister before, and that feeling was very different from this. But what else could it be? The thought of Sherlock made my stomach feel a flutter inside and I grinned stupidly to myself as I lay there in the dark with his face emblazed in my mind. He was three years older than me and while that didn’t feel like a lot, at our age it did make quite a difference. 17 and 14, the difference between the last remains of being a child and the near beginning of adulthood lay between us with just those few years. So even if I somehow had fallen for him, head over heels, it didn’t mean that I could do anything about those feelings. Strangely enough, that thought was somehow comforting. It meant I had to endure loving him in secret, but it also meant that I didn’t have to risk anything by pursuing him. He was simply too unattainable. I would be fully content with just being in his presence during the next couple of weeks and maybe fantasize about him in a very innocent schoolboy type of way until I found somebody I could love for real.  
I rose and went over to my suitcase that still was half unpacked on the floor by the wardrobe. In it were my magic cards and the book of spells. With the presence of Sherlock running through my veins like a raging fever that first night at Donnithorpe, I lighted a candle and procured the necessary spell to grant his wish coming true.  
“Make this the hottest summer ever.” I whispered as I pricked the skin on my finger with a sharp pin and let the blood, oozing out, drop on to the lighted candle.


	2. Heat

I came to regret it of course, as you do when you’re dealing with magic and expect it to just fix your problems without asking for something in return. There is always a balance that needs to even things out, you ask for something but must be willing to pay the price too. As I had asked for hot weather I hadn’t even thought about the fact that I didn’t have any clothes that would accommodate that type of weather. I had my school uniform and a warmer suit in tweed that had lasted me through the school year but that was about it. We didn’t have money, just enough to be able to send me away to school on a scholarship, I had barely anything else. Even my shoes were sturdy boots, far too warm for the kind of heat that now was descending upon us.  
I pretended that it didn’t bother me of course. I ran with Mike through the maze and on the lawn in front of the house, played croquet with him and ignored the scorching rays of sunshine until Mycroft, who else, brought the subject up to the surface.  
“That looks awfully hot, John. Didn’t you bring your summer wardrobe with you?”  
As I already was red in the face from the heat they couldn’t detect my blush, but I was used to playing the game, dodge the uncomfortable questions money always brought up, so I beamed at him politely and lied through my teeth.  
“My mother must have forgotten to pack them. It doesn’t matter, I’ll manage.”  
Most people would have settled for that, but Mycroft Holmes wasn’t like most people.  
“Well you must write to her then and ask her to send them here. You can’t spend the whole summer in that Norfolk jacket, you’ll melt away.”  
The adults were all seated in the garden, enjoying some lemonade and cucumber sandwiches and now I could feel the attention turning towards me in an unpleasant way. I didn’t like being the center of attention and I feared they all sensed my reason for standing in the sweltering heat with a ridiculously warm jacket and knickerbockers, melting away, both physically and mentally, which was really because I didn’t own any light summer clothes acceptable in these circles. When my mother packed my suitcase before the departure she had made sure that I had my best clothes with me, not considering the hot weather at all. It was more important that I could stand in front of this group and look respectable in a descent outfit despite having sweat trickling down my back, than showing up in the old clothes I wore the summer before, now too short and very shabby from wear and tear. It felt like they could smell my desperation and embarrassment from miles away like a pack of upper class wolves.  
“But that will take too long.” It was Sherlock, coming to my rescue. I felt grateful for his support as the others would hardly even try to question Mycroft and his right to put me on the spot in front of everyone. “Let me take you to town, we’ll stop by the tailors and work something out for you to wear.”  
Despite my gratefulness towards him helping me out and not exposing the lie he probably sensed laid there at the bottom of my excuse, the question about money still remained.  
“I don’t have that much money with me I’m afraid,” I said quietly.  
“Well, we have some. Right, Mycroft? Enough to buy our guest a summer outfit at least”  
“He has clothes at home, Sherlock…”  
“And I’m saying that it will take too long to send after them, he’ll melt away before they arrive. It can be a gift! When is your birthday, John?”  
“The 27th.”  
Sherlocks eyes widened, and he broke out in a triumphant smile.  
“Really? Of this month? Well then, that settles it! We can all buy you clothes for your birthday, it’s something you need after all. “  
“I call bagsy on a new pair of shoes, those boots make me sweat just by looking at them,” the man called Gregory chimed in.  
I wasn’t too sure who he was exactly, but he was a friend of the Vernets and close to both Sherlock and the man called Philip. He was friendly enough and didn’t seem as posh as the rest of them but that remark about my boots still stung a little, however well intended it was supposed to be.  
“Maybe you should wait for Charles to get here? You could make a day of it. I know that he has shown interest in getting a tour of the town. And he so likes your company, Sherlock.”  
It was Mycroft again. He seemed very insistent to make his point of view come across. I hadn’t been able to figure out the relationship between the two brothers just yet but from what I had seen so far Mycroft was very determined in his efforts to steer Sherlock in the direction of his choosing. He also mentioned Charles Magnussen frequently in conversation with Sherlock who didn’t seem interested in the subject at all. Or of Mycroft’s opinions on anything for that matter. The younger brother had an almost antagonistic standpoint against his sibling, as if everything the older one said rubbed him the wrong way. But I was too young and unexperienced in the matters of relationships and family ties to really think much about it. I was far too busy enjoying myself with Mike and admiring Sherlock’s profile whenever I got the chance.  
“Mr Magnussen will find the town dreadfully boring and won’t enjoy going shopping with us. He’s a businessman after all, he has other things on his mind I’m sure. Besides, this weather demands a quick solution, I say we go tomorrow.”  
Mycroft furrowed his brow, but Sherlock looked very pleased with himself for reasons I couldn’t really understand.  
“Of course, if anyone here likes to come along, feel welcome to do so,” he offered but we all knew too well than no one would be tempted in this heat.  
“Very well. Just don’t forget I did extend the invitation!”  
Mycroft continued to look displeased, but Sherlock didn’t deign to recognize it, just rose gracefully from where he was sitting and nodded towards Gregory.  
“Fancy a walk in the forest? It’s too hot out here.”  
“Well, yes but…,” Gregory looked bewildered for a moment, unsure if it was polite to just leave in the middle of a peaceful gathering and trays still full of refreshments. He didn’t look very happy to leave all that for the prospect of keeping pace with Sherlock galivanting through the woods.  
“Oh, please, no one here minds. Besides, I need to talk to you about a very interesting thing I read this morning in the paper. About those burglars in York…”  
“Sherlock…”, Mycroft admonished but his brother was already out of earshot.  
Later that same afternoon, while I was alone in our room, finishing the unpacking of my suitcase, there was a knock on the door and Sherlock popped in his curly head before sneaking inside.  
I felt my pulse immediately rising and tried very hard to concentrate on the contents in my suitcase, so I wouldn’t blush again when I looked at him. He sat down beside me and pulled a cigarette from a silver-plated case in his back pocket.  
“Do you want one?”  
He extended the case towards me, but I just shook my head. I didn’t want to risk making a fool of myself by coughing or something equally embarrassing in front of him. I had smoked once or twice before but it hadn’t agreed with me.  
He lighted the cigarette and drew in a lungful before slowly exhaling against the ceiling, the smoke coming out in the form of a circle. Even a gesture like that made me think indecent thoughts and I drew my eyes away from his lips that were touching the cigarette gently, like a kiss, and for the third time I tried to focus on the unpacking instead.  
“There is no summer wardrobe at your home, am I right? Your mother didn’t forget to pack because there wasn’t anything for her to pack.”  
I refused to look at him even if his voice wasn’t accusing or condescending, just stating a fact.  
“You don’t have to respond, I know that I’m right. No one in their right mind travels to the country in June in a pair of boots and sturdy clothes more suited for a hunting party in autumn, if they can avoid it. I see that your clothes have been mended a couple of times, however nicely it’s done you can still see traces of it in the elbows and on the knees. Your mother is a very good seamstress, wish we had someone as good as her in this household. Mycroft hates it when I ruin my clothes, says I cost too much to keep respectable. Whatever that means…”  
The last words were muttered more to himself than to me and he turned his eyes away for a moment.  
I didn’t know what to say. I knew it was too late to come up with another excuse, he wouldn’t believe me anyway and I would risk making an even bigger fool of myself for trying. Turned out I didn’t need to say anything because he quickly took up pace again.  
“There is no shame in it, not having any money.”  
“I have money,” I started to protest, too used to keep appearances up to recognize when the game was up.  
“No, you don’t. Neither have I, despite what you think you see. Everyone here knows we’re poor as church rats, don’t know why Mycroft insists on keeping up the charade.”  
“Pride?” I ventured, because that was something ingrained in both my sister and myself. We weren’t willing to lose face over something trivial as clothes, we had learned to come up with explanations whenever needed if we lacked something others had. He turned his eyes towards me again. They were a calm green right now and with a hint of curiosity in them.  
“You’re not as stupid as your friend.”  
“Hey!” Even if I felt somewhat glad over the compliment it was still rather rude.  
“What? You know it’s true. You’re only friends because you two are the odd ones out at that school. Don’t pretend to have any loyalties towards a person who you won’t make the effort to maintain a friendship with beyond your school years.”  
However beguiled I was by him I still couldn’t help a lame effort of protestation. He was too sure of himself, a bit arrogant to be honest and although my eyes were tinted a rose-colored hue when it came to him I still felt I had to challenge his claim.  
“How would you know? We’ve just met.”  
“It’s evident in your body language. You aim to please because you’re grateful to be invited here, to this fantasy world of the upper classes. Mike on the other hand is happy for the company, alone as he usually is among a group of people that are far too old for him and barely even know his name. I’m not sure if anyone here even remembers who the true connection to the parents is and how this arrangement really came about. As far as we know it could be a case of utility abused to core by two strangers that can’t be bothered to bring their own child home for the holidays. Monsoon or not.”  
I stared at him, unable to come up with anything to say. What he said was definitely a bit out of line, bordering on the rude and I should feel offended for the sake of my friend, but at the same time, what he said had some truth to it also. Mike and I were friends because we shared the same fate at school, better to face the enemies there together than alone, but we didn’t have many interests in common apart from that. As far as being guests here, he certainly had more precedence over me but at the same time no one really paid him any attention and it didn’t feel like anyone was in charge of caring for him either. Considering that his parents had sent him here for the whole summer with nothing more than a trunk of clothes it could very well be as Sherlock put it, they were far more invested in their own lives than in the happiness of their son. Utility indeed.  
When I didn’t say anything, I saw Sherlock make an uncomfortable shrug.  
“I have stepped over some invisible social line again it seems,” he muttered.  
He put out the cigarette and broke eye contact again.  
“Mycroft says it’s a trademark of mine. I observe and then make the assumption that everyone wants to hear my conclusions. I really didn’t come in here to make you feel awkward.”  
“I don’t mind”, I told him quite truthfully, because I honestly didn’t. I wasn’t used to the kind of frankness that he presented, but it felt strangely refreshing. At least when it wasn’t aimed directly at me, I could only guess what others felt about it. “But maybe don’t mention that thing you said about his parents to Mike? I don’t think he would appreciate it being pointed out, however true you think it is.”  
“Alright then. That’s good,” he concluded and rose from the bed. “I just wanted to say that your secret is safe with me. About the clothes. “  
He smiled a little and my heart started beating faster again. He could have said whatever he liked, and I would still have looked at him like a lovesick puppy. The fact that we now shared a secret just made me even more devoted to him.


	3. New clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take a trip in to town

The next morning, as we headed in to town it started off with the two of us in a amicable mood but as we arrived he gradually became more impatient and after a few minutes at the tailor he abruptly leaned closer to me and put a hand on my knee.  
“You know, I have a few errands to run and this will take a while. Would you mind meeting me at the station at two o clock instead?”  
I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. I knew that I was just 14 and that a 17-year old probably had a million better things to do than to babysit me, but it had on the other hand been his idea to take this trip into town and I had felt really special sitting next to him on the train, talking like we were equals, feeling as close to being myself as I possibly could in this world where ever detail was a etiquette rule I didn’t know about because I came from a different background. Sherlock’s easygoing way regarding protocol made me feel at ease around him, he didn’t care about decorum, dressed the way he liked in his leisured style without the compulsory waistcoat, tie and hat like the other men wore. He talked freely of everything that popped into his mind and made me feel at ease doing the same and had this haughtiness to him that scared off all the dull people he didn’t want to be bothered with. Like Anthea and Philip Anderson for example, who seemed to share a mutual dislike toward him, and he toward them.   
I could see why Mike’s mother would refer to him as a fox, you couldn’t really pinpoint if he was pulling an act and was being nice to me because of some hidden agenda only he knew about, from what I had heard about him he wasn’t exactly the most sociable person. But on the other hand, I had nothing to offer but myself, what could he possibly want from me if not just my company? Maybe he really liked our chemistry or the fact that I didn’t get offended by his frankness? I didn’t know for sure but chose to believe that he saw some value in talking to me, even if the conversation mostly concerned articles he had read in the paper and observations he had made of the people sitting around us. He usually was quieter. During our first supper at Donnithorpe he hadn’t spoken a word, so this flow of conversation was something new, but I enjoyed it and believed he did as well.   
But now he wanted to leave. I couldn’t imagine him having any actual errands to run, it was an obvious excuse but what could I say? I couldn’t deny him to leave if he wanted to, so I put on the best smile I could muster without showing my disappointment and nodded.  
He looked relieved for a second and mentally already out the door when he suddenly turned his head and faced the tailor.  
“Make sure to give him the full make over, he must shine upon our return. It’s his birthday gift. Put everything on our account for now, my brother will sort it out by the end of the month.”  
“Very well, Mr Holmes. Nothing for yourself today? We have some new shirts, just came in the other day.”  
“Tempting but no. It’s all about John today. See you at the station by two.”  
“Don’t forget!” I called after him, but he was already out the door.  
“That’s Holmes the younger for you, always rushing about, on his way somewhere else. I have known him since he was a little boy and he came here with his brother. Never could stand still, not even for a fitting. “  
It was muttered with an affectionate tone and I felt that the tailor, Mr Brummell, seemed as fond of Sherlock as I was. Well maybe not exactly as I was, but fond nonetheless.  
“Does he come by often?” I inquired, encouraged by his open display of affection for my companion.  
“Now and again, mostly with his brother. It used to be more often before…,” He stopped as if suddenly realizing he was talking to a child and just resumed his work without finishing the sentence.  
My new outfit consisted of a whole new suit, two shirts, a pair of trousers, a straw hat, two bow ties and leather shoes. The last time I had felt as smartly dressed was when I put on the school uniform for the first time at home, to show my mother and sister. At school, where everyone was dressed in the same outfit, the novelty of wearing fancy clothes wore off quickly, but as I watched myself in the mirror now, I felt sure I would treasure these clothes forever.   
“You look like a young gentleman, Master Watson. Mr Holmes will be pleased when he sees you, I’m sure.”  
I wore the suit, the shoes and the hat and took the rest in wrapped-up parcels together with my old clothes and started off toward the train station. I was a bit early but sat there on a bench by the tracks, satisfied with my day, despite Sherlock having rushed off to amuse himself elsewhere. As the train came in five minutes before departure there was still no sign of him though and I started to worry a bit. I didn’t have any money for a ticket home if he didn’t show up and I didn’t know anyone here that could help me. What if I had heard him wrong and he had said one o ‘clock? What if I had missed him and he had already boarded the train? What if he had taken off without me, forgetting I was with him on this trip?   
I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, warning me off:  
You never know with these people, they’re not like us. Without a care in the world they can forget you exist in a second, as if you didn’t even matter. To them we don’t. Matter.   
She had said it as I departed for school after Christmas and she had said it again, more poignantly when she learned that I was going with Mike to Donnithorpe.   
I had tried to explain to her, reason with her, that no matter what, I knew my worth, but she had just shaken her head and looked worried. In the end it was a relief not having to spend my whole summer with her and my sister at home. I wanted to experience something else.  
As the whistle on the train blew, ready for departure, I was more or less frantic with worry. But through the smoke from the chimney he suddenly came running, materializing as out of thin air. He looked happy when he saw me, grabbed my arm and took the parcels before nimbly jumping on board just as the train started to move. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like someone was right behind him when he had emerged, quick steps following him along the platform. A tall figure, broad, dressed in a large coat, but when I turned my head to look closer, while boarding the train, I saw no one. Sherlock didn’t look back at all, so I waived it off as being nothing of interest, maybe even an illusion.  
“Perfect timing as always. I hate waiting for trains,” he explained and gave me a wink before settling down in our seats.   
After he had ordered us tea he turned to me again.  
“I see your visit went well, you look just the part. Do you feel any different?”  
“I don’t know,” I answered, unsure of the answer myself. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. But I’m very pleased. Thank you.”  
He waived his hand nonchalantly in the air, not even bothering to look at me while doing it, instead giving his cup of tea his fullest attention. The brownish concoction made him give it his most affronted look, as if the beverage itself had offended him with it’s failure to live up to his usual standards. It probably did.  
“Oh, think nothing of it. It’s your birthday gift, remember.”  
He took a small, hesitant sip, grimaced at the result before putting the cup down rather forcefully and then turned his head towards the window and looked out at the landscape rushing by. I wanted to ask him what he had been up to in town while I’d been stuck at the tailors, but something told me that he wouldn’t appreciate the question. Instead I settled in my seat, watched his profile from the corner of my eye for a while and eventually nodded off. I woke by Sherlock shaking my shoulder, declaring that we were home once again.  
When we arrived, everyone had already gathered for afternoon tea in the salon. The servants were still busy preparing everything when we entered, and everyone greeted us with small outcries of satisfaction at my appearance.  
“You look really smart in that. The color suits you, “Mrs. Vernet declared, and I beamed proudly.   
Everyone except Mycroft commented on my appearance while Sherlock sunk down on the sofa next to Gregory. His demeanor had dampened a bit as the carriage from the station took us home and he hadn’t said a word after entering the house. As I looked at him now he seemed a bit tense and I noticed Mycroft looking intently at him.  
“What do you think, Mycroft, doesn’t he look perfect?”  
It was Anthea who broke the tension by bringing the older brother back to reality from whatever realm in his mind he had withdrawn to contemplate. It sometimes felt as if the only thing that seemed to occupy Mycroft’s thoughts was his little brother. Whenever they were together it became noticeable even if Sherlock most of the time did his best to pretend that Mycroft wasn’t there. But the more he ignored him, the more determined Mycroft seemed to be to get his little brother’s attention. Maybe it was a sibling thing, I wasn’t that close to my sister, so I didn’t really know how that felt, but sometimes it seemed like they had whole conversations between them without uttering a single word and hardly even exchanging looks.   
Mycroft forcibly turned his gaze and gave me a full inspection. Now it was Sherlocks turn to look at Mycroft instead, waiting, as for a verdict of sorts.  
Finally Mycroft nodded and a shadow of relief swept over Sherlock’s features.   
“Very fine indeed, John. I hope Sherlock took good care of you while you were there?”  
“Oh, he did indeed. I’m very grateful,” I assured him but Mycroft just game me a doubtful look before turning his attention elsewhere.   
After that it felt like the atmosphere eased up a little bit and people resumed talking to each other.  
“Did you see anyone in town?”  
Mycroft locked his eyes on Sherlock who swallowed a small sigh and looked right back, stoically.   
“Not a single person. We were quite busy with the shopping, weren’t we John?”  
“Yes. We were,” I said and smiled innocently towards Mycroft.   
His eyes narrowed for a second, as if suspiciously scrutinizing me but then just nodded and turned to Mr Vernet who was seated to his right, striking up a conversation about the financial situation in London at the moment. Mr Vernet was some sort of advisor to the Cabinet regarding economy and trade, it was all very boring and I didn’t bother listening to what they were saying. I started to turn, ready to go sit with Mike on the divan by the window when I caught Sherlock looking at me. I had lied for him and he seemed grateful but also slightly surprised. I could see him calculating the reasons for my loyalty but not coming up with the real reason, to my huge relief. I looked straight back at him with an innocent expression, raising my eyebrows slightly as if questioning his inspection of me.  
“You won’t feel hot in that outfit, John. Lucky thing we made that trip,” he finally concluded and reached for his cigarette case. I was dismissed.


	4. A new acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a glimpse of two new arrivals to the stage

The next day was so hot we all decided to go swimming. Well most of us anyway. Mycroft, Anthea and the Vernets opted for staying at home but Mike, Philip, Gregory, Sherlock and myself decided that we couldn’t stand the heat any longer, took two bottles of lemonade with us and started walking towards the river on the other side of the forest.   
As we approached the river we saw someone already in the water, speeding ahead with long strokes, making waves on the surface.  
“Who is that? They must know that they’re trespassing,” Mike protested. He looked dismayed that someone who wasn’t even supposed to be there had beaten us to our plan.   
“Ah, it’s Victor Trevor, the tenant from Armitage Farm,” Philip concluded after leaning forward to get a better look,” I’ve met him once in the village. We don’t socialize of course but we mustn’t let him think we’re stuck up. Let me have a talk with him.”  
“Do what you like, I’ll go change into my swim wear,” Sherlock said and started to move away from the rest of us standing watching Mr Trevor swim his way along the river.  
“Is he naked?” Mike suddenly gasped and shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look.  
“Good thing we didn’t bring Anthea along,” Philip muttered. “Best not to remain here, staring at him, it makes us look stupid. I’ll go down and try and have a word with the man.”  
We all joined Philip down to the river bank, except Sherlock who had disappeared into the forest, further along.  
“He’s quite a good swimmer considering he’s a farmer,” Philip said. “I thought the only thing farmers knew how to do was working in the field.”  
“He’s not a farmer. He’s just someone who rents Armitage farm from Mr Magnussen, I think he’s a painter or something,” Gregory mused.   
“A painter? What is he doing in Norfolk then? There’s nothing here but kettle and country squires for miles on end, nothing of interest to turn into art. “  
“Could be painting landscapes perhaps? I thought I heard Mrs Hudson mention something about a painter renting a house from Magnussen, but maybe I’m misinformed.”  
“He doesn’t look very artistic, far too muscly and rugged I think “Philip said with a hint of doubt in his voice.  
Mike and I stood behind the adults watching Mr Trevor plough through the water towards us. Suddenly he stopped, rose to a standing position and pushed his wet hair from his eyes. The waterline divided his body at just under the pelvis, showing off a tall, muscular body with broad shoulders and chest hair down to his navel. He must have been around 24-25 years, tanned, with blond hair and a brooding face. It was difficult to say if he really was a painter, his frame suggested manual labor but maybe that was just his body type.   
“Oh, hello. I didn’t think anyone would be swimming here. It’s much nicer upstream. I won’t be long, I promise.” His voice was as deep and strong as his appearance, with a hint of a northern accent.  
“No worries, we can take your advice and swim further up the river.” Philip hesitated, threw a glance in Gregory’s direction and then turned toward Victor Trevor once again. “Mr Magnussen is arriving Saturday. He’ll be wanting to inspect his properties I believe.”  
Mr Trevor gave us all a doubtful look before starting to turn in the water, showing off his muscular backside.  
“Well, I’ll be ready if he stops by Armitage farm. Though I doubt it, he hasn’t been there for the last couple of years. It’s my third year renting the place and I haven’t met the man once.”  
With that he plunged himself into the water, exposing his nakedness to us and began to swim further away from shore.  
“Well, I think that went well, don’t you? He seemed at ease despite our intrusion,” Philip said but Mike was displeased.  
“Our intrusion? This isn’t his river.”  
“He’s a tenant of Mr Magnussen’s, just as we are,” Gregory intervened.  
“Doesn’t mean he has to swim around naked for everyone to see. What if Anthea had been with us? Or Mrs. Vernet? “, Mike continued to protest but Gregory just shook his head, as if urging Mike to let it go.   
“Come along now, let’s go find Sherlock.”  
We didn’t need to go very far to find him, just a couple of meters down the river he had undressed and put on his swimwear, running into the water as we arrived. He wore white and blue with a belt at the waist accentuating his slimness. He looked beautiful of course, like always, but at the sight of the more open display of his body I felt my cheeks start to blush again, as they seemed to do perpetually these days. Philip and Gregory soon followed him into the water, but I hesitated. I hadn’t told them that I didn’t know how to swim that well. My idea had been to just cool myself in the water a bit but seeing the river now I didn’t know how deep it was and where it would be safe for me to stroll. Considering that the others jumped right in, head over heels, it would seem strange of me just wandering the shoreline half naked. I had borrowed swim wear from Mike so I had the attire but lacked both the skill and the courage to venture out in to the water like the others.  
“Aren’t you coming?” Mike yelled, removing the final garments of his outfit.  
“I have a bit of a headache, I think I’ll stay on shore for now.”  
“Are you sure? It’s so hot in the sun, that’s probably what’s giving you a headache and the water is really refreshing! We found a snake in the water last time I was here, Mycroft threw a fit at the sight of it.”  
I could help laughing at the thought.  
“Mycroft? Hard to believe.”  
“Yes. Difficult to say who laughed harder, me or Sherlock. It’s the only time I’ve seen Mycroft Holmes lose his composure completely.”  
“Wish I could have been here to see it.”  
“Well, you didn’t know me two years ago. Are you really sure you don’t want to join us?”  
But I just nodded and motioned him to run into the water.   
As the others swam I walked the riverbank, enjoying my surroundings, stealing a glance or two of Sherlock splashing in the water and just feeling at ease with my existence. This was proving to be the best time of my life so far. I lived at a beautiful estate, more like a castle-like manor than a house really, as a guest to the most intriguing people I had ever met, with Sherlock Holmes as the jewel in the crown. Way out of my league of course and yet so approachable, willing to talk to me and everyone else treating me so kindly. If this was how the rich and privileged lived I would do anything in my power to be one of them one day. Even Mycroft Holmes with his condescending tone and watchful eyes didn’t really bother me, even if he scared me a little bit. He was just a bit eccentric, probably burdened by his limited prospects come autumn. Who wouldn’t be a bit on edge when worrying about the future?   
There, in the sunshine, down by the riverbank, deep in the heart of Norfolk that summer day in June, I could even be generous enough to admit that I felt a bit sorry for him. At 24 he already seemed doomed to remain a bachelor. I hadn’t heard anyone mention any romantic interest regarding him and his demeanor suggested that he was a person closed off to that area in life. He almost struck me as being a bit lonely, despite having all these people around him. He was the person who could be seated right in the middle and yet come off as being separated from the rest of us. I didn’t know how he and Sherlock lived their lives the rest of the year, but I suspected that it was just the two of them in that big house for long stretches of time, when visitors weren’t around, and Norfolk wasn’t the green glittering emerald that it was during the summer.   
My thoughts were interrupted by a rustle from the reed and my eyes caught Mr Trevor ascending from the water, stark naked, his skin glistening in the sun. He lay down on the grass to dry himself when we suddenly heard a laugh that made both of us turn our heads to the river.   
It was Sherlock. I hadn’t heard him laugh before, not like this, genuine and joyful. It made my heart beat faster and from were I was standing I could se that the sound had made an impact on Mr Trevor as well. He half rose at the sound and craned his neck to get a better view.   
Sherlock himself didn’t see us, he just threw himself in the water, oblivious to his surroundings. I observed Mr Trevor staring at Sherlock for a little while longer before rising and starting to put his clothes on. As he stretched his arms in the air to pull his shirt over his head Sherlock suddenly turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder. They stared at each other for a longer time than strictly necessary when acknowledging each others presence, then Mr Trevor bent his neck and nodded towards him before turning around and walking away. Sherlock stood there for a moment longer, watching him disappear through the woods, the he turned to the other bathers and splashed them before gliding under the surface.  
On the way home Sherlock walked by my side. He seemed content after the swim and was unusually talkative, a bit like when we took the train in to town the day before. He snaked his arm around my shoulder and leaned in close when pointing something out that caught his interest. It was almost like we had switched roles and I was the mature one and he the child, he was so surprisingly enthusiastic about the smallest things. I hadn’t seen that behavior played out to this degree before, but it was nice to see him so content.  
Behind our backs Gregory and Philip were talking about Victor Trevor. Mike was still upset about the man’s cheekiness, swimming naked in public and Philip questioned whether the man really was a painter, in his opinion he looked more like a laborer.   
“Do you know that man, Mr Trevor?” I asked, remembering how they had looked at each other earlier.  
“I have probably met him sometime. I don’t remember,” Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders.  
“Is he a painter? Like Gregory said?”  
“I believe he is. I don’t know, I’m not sure that I have actually spoken to the man.”   
“You can always tell what people do for a living with that trick of yours, if you have talked to him, then you know whether or not he is a painter or a simple farmer,” Philip quipped.  
“What trick?” I asked curiously.   
“Oh, haven’t he showed you yet? He can tell you everything about a person just by looking at such nonsense as the creasing of a shirt or the smudges on people’s shoes. “  
“It’s not a trick, I merely observe.”  
“Whatever you call it, Sherlock…,” Gregory chuckled and was shot a dark look by my walking companion.  
“You could all do it if you only bothered to pay more attention to detail. It’s really quite elementary.”  
“Ooh, you ruffled his feathers now, Gregory,” Philip teased, elbowing Gregory lightly, both of them chuckling while Sherlock indignantly snorted and turned his face away from us. He released his grip on my shoulders and hurried his steps, leaving me behind. He was clearly in a huff although I couldn’t quite understand what had brought it on. The others were only teasing a bit surely?   
“What was that all about?” I asked when I caught up with him.  
“Let’s talk about something else,” he muttered and anxious as I was to not upset him even more I gave him the space he clearly wanted and joined Mike, trailing behind the others, instead.  
I spent the next couple of days with Mike and saw very little of Sherlock, only small glimpses during meals and other gatherings. The weather was hot and the adults reclined among themselves, strolling inside the maze or rested in their rooms while Mike and I played even more croquet and explored the nearby surroundings of the estate. Sherlock went swimming once more one afternoon, this time by himself and returned with his hair even curlier with dripping locks, running rivulets down his neck and throat, just in time for dinner. Mycroft didn’t approve of his appearance, wet and underdressed with his shirtsleeves rolled up and neither jacket or a tie on, but gave up his complaining as a lost cause when Sherlock turned a deaf ear. He couldn’t resist leaving a comment on the rumpled shirt though, but Sherlock just waved it away with a flick of his wrist like it was nothing.  
“You try venturing through both a field and a forest in this degree of heat and then return wrinkle free, Mycroft. The walk might even do you some good, I can’t remember the last time you went swimming in the river. We must have been children. Or at least I was, not quite sure you ever were one.”  
For once Mycroft just snorted at his brother’s quips and let it go without a disapproving frown or a withering look.   
On Saturday the house suddenly woke to life, as if from a slumber and an air of expectation combined with tension made its way through the household. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen during both breakfast and lunch and Mycroft was in a strained mood while everyone else around the table were either unusually quiet or on edge, almost snapping at each other. Philip and Anthea got in to a small argument which led to her excusing herself with a headache and withdrawing to her room for the rest of the day. Mike and I held to ourselves for most of the time, playing crocket yet again and going for a walk.  
Eventually I couldn’t resist asking him about the changes I felt in the house.  
“Oh, it’s because Mr Magnussen is coming today. He was in the Boer war until recently, got shot in face but survived. I haven’t seen him myself but I heard that he’s got a big scar on his left side, they couldn’t fix it afterwards.”  
“So why are people’s so anxious about him coming?”  
“Well, it’s his house, he is the true master now. Mycroft resents him for it, it should have been his if their parents hadn’t lost all their money. Mycroft is a proud man, I think his biggest wish is for this place to return to it’s rightful owner. He wishes for Sherlock to marry Mr Magnussen for that very reason.”  
“What?!”  
I swiveled my head and stared at Mike, incredulously.   
“Yes. Apparently Mr Magnussen came here during the spring, when returning from the war and happened to see Sherlock through a window during his visit. He was immediately smitten.”  
Mike sniggered a bit, not used to talking about silly things like romance and love, especially with a friend from school. Yet probably more grateful to be doing it with me than with anyone else.   
I shook my head as if the gesture would make what he was saying more comprehensible.   
“How do you know? You weren’t even here.”  
“I heard Gregory and Mycroft talk about it. That’s how I know what Mycroft’s planning. When he saw Magnussen’s interest in his brother he also saw his opportunity. “  
“But why, if he’s so ugly and have a disfigured face? Why would Sherlock want to marry a man like that?”  
Mike shrugged his shoulders, as if the idea that Sherlock could refuse the offer hadn’t even occurred to him.  
“It’s a good match. It will solve all their problems with money too. If Sherlock marries Magnussen this house will be his again and by extension also Mycroft’s. He can never be the true master of it obviously, but it will still be in the family. Sort of.”  
It made me feel uneasy, thinking about it. I didn’t know anything about this Mr Magnussen, apart from what Mike had told me, but I doubted that Sherlock was into the idea of marrying him. Or marrying anyone for that matter. He didn’t seem like the type. And he was only 17. Wasn’t it a bit too young?  
As the evening came, Mike and I were shown to our room. We were not permitted to stay up and meet Mr Magnussen who would arrive rather late. The rest of the household were busy preparing for his arrival, so no one saw us sneaking out in our pajamas and slippers, finding a dark spot up on the stairs, behind the baluster, where we could observe the comings and goings of the front door.   
Finally he arrived and we leaned forward to get a better look, especially at the scar that probably was what intrigued us the most, as being a reminder of a war still raging on in a different part of the world.   
We had a pretty good view from where we were hiding and could see when the butler opened the door to let the man in and be greeted by Mycroft. He was tall and skinny, in his forties, wore spectacles and had thin fair hair. In the light, when he turned to hand his coat to the butler, we could see the scar. It was long, stretching from the chin up to his eye, but it wasn’t as bad as I had envisioned it and the spectacles made a good job of hiding it also. He wasn’t the monster I had seen in my mind when Mike had told me about the shot in the face. Instead he looked boring and stand-offish to me and the thought of Sherlock marrying him felt absurd. It dampened my mood thinking about it. On the other hand, what Mycroft wanted and what Sherlock actually did were often two opposites, so the likelihood of it happening felt rather small.  
Downstairs Mr Magnussen had shook hands with both Mycroft and Mr Vernet and was now turning towards someone coming from a direction we couldn’t see properly. A set of black curls, for once brushed and arranged, a vision in a dark suit with a tie, Sherlock stepped forward. He looked more put together than I had ever seen him before, proper and suitably dressed for once. Mycroft’s doing probably, how he had ever managed to pull that off was a mystery though.   
“Ah, Sherlock, what a delight!”  
Mr Magnussen’s voice was calm, with a hint of a foreign accent. His face was smiling a shark like grin as he took Sherlocks offered hand in both of his and let his fingers caress it.   
“Mr Magnussen,” Sherlock greeted and lowered his head in acknowledgement.  
“Please, call me Charles. I insist.”  
“Well do come in,” Mycroft proffered when Sherlock didn’t say anything else and then started to lead the way towards the salon where the others were waiting. Sherlock lingered behind for a second before following and we lost sight of them.  
As we went back to our room and climbed into bed, my head was full of swirling thoughts about what was happening downstairs, but Mike had already lost interest, now that he had seen the only thing that really interested him: the scar.  
Eventually Mike fell asleep, but I had a harder time finding any peace of mind. I hadn’t liked the way Mr Magnussen had looked at Sherlock, it felt all too predatory and for the first time I felt that Mycroft was out of his depth with that plan of his. Did he really want his brother to marry that man just for the sake of it being a good match? A good match for who?


	5. Delivering a message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out more information about Charles Magnussen and learns a few secrets about Sherlock too.

The next morning was Sunday which meant going to church. There was a small chapel in the village where we all went after breakfast. Mr Magnussen was nowhere to be seen at the table so he had probably not spent the night in the same house as the rest as us. The Holmes brothers had until autumn to move out after all.  
I dressed in my school uniform that felt more suited for church than my other clothes, or at least according to my idea of what going to church meant. Turned out that the privileged class didn’t have the same rules when it came to show some modesty in clothing when attending service. When I had gone to church with my mother and sister back home it usually meant locking proper and preferably dressing in dark colors. Here, in Norfolk, during summer, it was more an affair of showing off the newest addition to your wardrobe. The ladies were veritable peacocks, trying to outdo each other with feathered hats and lots of white lace details on the dresses. The men weren’t much better, they were all kitted out with the very best, lots of dove grey and pearly white colors, hats in different variations and handkerchiefs in silk. Not a dark detail in sight. Except for me and my school uniform.  
Mike gave me a credulous look as I came out to join him in the carriage taking us there, but said nothing. It wasn’t until we arrived, and I saw everyone else, that I realized my mistake. Considering Sherlock’s comment about him and Mycroft being poor as church rats it certainly didn’t show in their clothing choices. Sherlock was a vision in crème colors and a straw boater with a navy-blue ribbon, accentuating his eyes, the dark curls sticking out under the hat and a silk scarf nonchalantly thrown around his neck. Mycroft had opted for a light grey pinstriped suit with a lilac handkerchief in its breast pocket, a grey bowler hat and a walking cane with a silver-plated lionhead. They looked nothing but members of the highest echelon of society, luxurious and fashionably rich.  
Mr Magnussen was also there, but he arrived a little too late to be seated with the rest of us and had to settle for a seat across the aisle. I saw him casting glances Sherlock’s way during service, but the object of his admiration didn’t acknowledge it once.  
As we were leaving church afterwards I happened to be one of the last behind, together with Mr Magnussen, and he, having recognized me as a belonging to the group from Donnithorpe, approached me and presented himself.  
“I believe we haven’t been introduced. Mr Charles Magnussen.”  
He extended his hand and shook mine, with a limp and somewhat moist shake.  
“John Watson,” I replied, suppressing the urge to wipe my hand afterwards because of the slightly unpleasant wetness to the touch. It felt slippery in my palm.  
“I saw you sitting with the people from Donnitorpe. A friend of the Holmes family perhaps?”   
“No, just a schoolfriend to Mike Stanford. The boy sitting to my right,” I explained.  
An awkward silence occurred while I was thinking of something to say while he observed me through his spectacles.   
“I heard you’re the owner of Donnithorpe, Mr Magnussen. It’s a splendid house, Sir, truly impressive,” I finally blurted out.   
“Yes. I was fortunate to obtain it at just the right time. I wasn’t here myself when the purchase was made, merely had my solicitor meet with the late Mr Holmes and make up a buyer’s contract. But I had been informed of the splendor of the estate beforehand. When I came for the first time this spring, I was not disappointed.”  
Another silence occurred but this time he broke it.   
“I noticed you sitting next to Sherlock Holmes. The former owner’s youngest son.”   
“Yes,” I answered and couldn’t hold back a beaming smile.  
“Do you like him?”  
“Yes, very much.”  
His eyes gleamed behind the spectacles and his mouth did a small twitch.  
“Enough to do something for him?”  
“Well, yes. Anything.”  
“Tell him I’ve got a message for him. That he left his cigarette case behind on the pew and that I have it for him to collect. Could you do that for me? Say that Charles sent you.”  
I looked down at his left hand where he was holding the silver-plated case I had seen with Sherlock several times. It must have slipped from his pocket.  
“Of course. Just a minute, Mr Magnussen.”  
I rushed out through the entrance, leaving Magnussen behind, watching me from inside the open church door as I approached Sherlock and the others.  
“Ah, there you are,” Sherlock said as I came up to him,” we’re about to leave. Mike wanted to ride in the same carriage as you.”  
“I have a message to you. From Charles.”  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit as he looked down on me.  
“Who?”  
He frowned but I saw Mycroft turn his attention to us at the mention of the name.  
“Charles. Charles Magnussen,” I tried again.  
“Oh, alright?”  
He still sounded like he didn’t know who I was talking about and it made me insecure, as if I had somehow misunderstood something important. My eyes switched to Mycroft and then back to Sherlock again in confusion. But Mycroft came to my rescue.  
“Oh, stop being childish, Sherlock, you know who John is referring to,” Mycroft scolded his brother. Sherlock gave me a faint smile, as if to forgive his teasing or to buckle up for whatever message I had for him.  
“What’s the message then?” He asked finally.  
“He said to tell you that he has your cigarette case. That you left it behind on the pew but that he retrieved it for you to come and collect from him.”  
“My cigarette case?”  
Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, but they came out emptyhanded. He looked surprised at the notion. With a quick glance at Mycroft he then turned his attention back to me.  
“Well, tell Mr Magnussen that I am most grateful and that I will come and collect it later.”  
“Sherlock, that’s rude! Why don’t you go fetch it now and thank him properly, he’s waiting for you inside,” Mycroft protested but Sherlock just shook his head stubbornly.  
“No, I’ll fetch it later.”  
“Sherlock!”  
“But I must say it is a funny coincidence, the case slipping out of my pocket and Mr Magnussen being the person to find it. Considering the fact that he was seated on the other side of the aisle and nowhere near me.”  
He gave Mycroft a sharp look before turning away and walking toward the waiting carriages.   
I heard Mycroft sigh as I ran back to Mr Magnussen who was waiting for me. He looked slightly perplexed by seeing Sherlock walking away.  
“Well?” He said as I came closer.  
“He sends his gratitude and says that he will come and collect it later.”  
“Was that all?”  
Mr Magnussen sounded surprised more than irritated by the slight.  
“Yes sir.”   
“Very well then. Thank you, John, for your help.”   
And with that he passed by me and continued out the door and down the path to his own waiting carriage.  
  
It turned out Mr Magnussen wasn’t really in the war, not in any fighting capacity anyway. He just happened to be in the country, looking out for his interests in the weapon industry when he was shot in the face by a Boer presuming him to be British. Strangely enough considering his accent that sounded more like originating from the Dutch than the English language. He had to spend months in hospital afterwards, going through several surgical procedures to save his face from more permanent damage than just the scar. All the adults knew this of course, it was just easier saying that he was injured during the war than to explain why a foreigner who wasn’t even a British citizen suffered severe damage in a war he had nothing to do with.  
I found this out when sneaking through the maze the next afternoon, following Gregory and Anthea strolling through it, without them knowing of my eavesdropping.   
It was all a result of a series of unfortunate events.  
Come Sunday afternoon, after lunch, Mike started to feel ill and was confided to bedrest. As the evening came, a doctor was brought in as Mike’s state had deteriorated, with a fever running high and spots emerging on his body. I was moved to another room and left on my own for the rest of the evening while the doctor and Mrs. Vernet tended to the patient.   
As I came down for breakfast the next morning Mycroft informed me that Mike probably had chicken pox and was confined to his room for at least a week.   
As it was still early we were the only ones around the breakfast table, the others tending to rise much later or skipping the first meal of the day all together, choosing to stay in bed a little longer. I had spent many mornings with Mike and sometimes Mycroft as my only companions. Mycroft always seemed to be an early riser, despite not having an occupation that demanded of him to get up early. He usually sat by the head of the table, already dressed, reading the morning paper, drinking tea and eating his breakfast. When I was with Mike he seldom spoke to us, except for wishing us a good morning, but as it was only him and me now he probably felt required to at least make a small effort of conversing with me.  
“It’s unfortunate of course, but better be safe than sorry. We wouldn’t want you to succumb to the disease as well”  
“No,” I admitted, for what else could I say.   
I felt a little lost without having Mike around, but I understood of course that I had to adapt to the new circumstances as best as I could. I wondered if I should maybe offer to go home but at the same time I didn’t want to leave. It might be selfish, but even if Mike was now indisposed I still had Sherlock and that allure was much stronger than any sense of decency in offering to depart.  
“I hope you will be able to amuse yourself while he is ill.”   
I nodded and felt his eyes on me over the rim of his tea cup. He had a way of making you feel like a bug pinned under a microscope sometimes when he put all his attention on you. It was disconcerting and not something I ever got used to. Sherlock also had a way of focusing in on a person now and then but during those occasions I didn’t feel as disturbed by it, more annoyed that it often resulted in me blushing or something equally stupid.   
“I suppose,” I answered and tried to focus on what was in front of me, piling on some scrambled eggs on my fork.   
The breakfast was very full, with bacon, sausages, hash browns, scrambled egg, boiled eggs, pastries, different jams, marmalade, honey, different sandwiches, herring and a ham. The first time I saw the breakfast table at Donnitorpe I couldn’t believe my eyes. At school we only had porridge for breakfast and at home it usually consisted of tea and bread, so it was the first time I experienced something more resembling a full meal to start off the day with. Therefore, still not used to the luxury of different choices, I usually stuffed myself with a little bit of everything from what was offered. As Mycroft also was very fond of food it didn’t feel strange tucking in, and normally we didn’t talk much but instead enjoyed our breakfast in peace.   
However, this morning, without the barrier of Mike between us, it was more difficult to focus on the food. It seemed that Mycroft had already been seated a while and eaten most of his breakfast, so his attention with ease landed on me. The paper next to his plate was still folded and untouched and I wished for him to focus on that one instead, but I was not so lucky. It seemed Mycroft had woken up determined to start his morning differently today.   
“Maybe you could be with Sherlock some more?”   
He continued his scrutiny of me as he took a sip of his tea and then put the cup down in front of him pristinely.   
“If he wants to,” I murmured, my mouth full of scrambled eggs and I saw Mycroft make a discreet twitch of his nose in disapproval.   
“Oh, I’m sure he would. He seems very fond of you.”   
When I didn’t comment he ventured on.  
“Probably tells you all his secrets.”  
“I’m not sure he’s told me any secrets at all.”  
“Oh, but he will eventually. Or you’ll figure them out for yourself. You are such a clever boy after all. Hard to believe you’re only turning 14.”   
I hummed in response because I didn’t know what he wanted out of this, but whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.  
“Sherlock turned 17 a couple of months ago, but you wouldn’t think it, the way he behaves sometimes. He has a wild streak to him, have you noticed? Rebellious.”  
The last word was almost hissed out, as if charged with subdued anger. When he paused, waiting for me to answer, I just stared down at my plate, shaking my head. It started to feel like he was probing for something but not getting the result he wanted.  
“Well, you will see it eventually. He probably was a little spoiled growing up, because now, all he wants to do is follow his own whims and where would we be if we all did that? “  
“I don’t know?”  
“Exactly. Just make sure he doesn’t trick you into doing anything foolish.”  
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. He’s been nothing but kind to me.”  
“Yes. That’s what worries me,” Mycroft concluded and finally moved his attention away from me and started to unfold the paper. Apparently, the conversation was over.  
I spent the rest of the morning walking around the garden and finally strolling into the maze after lunch. That’s where I accidentally heard Gregory and Anthea talking about Magnussen and I decided to sneak after them and try to hear what they were saying, partly because it was exciting to see if I could pull it off without getting caught and partly because I was already bored out of my mind.  
Gregory was the one who seemed to have the most information.   
“Mycroft isn’t that bothered of course. It doesn’t really matter what Magnussen was doing in Africa as long as he is who he says he is here in England and have the funds and connections to prove it. No use to look a gift horse in the mouth too closely. The same goes the other way too I would say. If Mycroft plays this right he could end up with a solution to two of his biggest problems.   
“What a stroke of luck, Mr Magnussen looking out that window when he did and seeing Sherlock, “ Anthea mused.   
“Yes, one could almost suspect that Mycroft had it arranged somehow. Wouldn’t put it past him, he’s quite the strategic, our host. Best thing of course is that it will take care of Sherlock for him,” Gregory concluded.  
“Yes, I shudder at the thought of him coming to London by autumn, running wild in town.”   
I could hear the disapproval in Anthea’s voice and wondered if she had ever experienced Sherlock causing havoc somewhere, it almost sounded like she spoke out of experience.  
“His stay at the latest school proved that it’s not an ideal solution to loosen his leash. That dreadful business with James Moriarty, no wonder he was kicked out. No persuasion from Mycroft whatsoever made them change their minds, they were very determined I’m told. And considering the power that comes with the Holmes name, however diminished that power is today, that’s quite a statement, refusing him another chance.”   
I felt my ears burning from all the information I was receiving, and millions of questions aligned themselves in my head, like buzzing bees in a hive, making it hard to concentrate on the sneaking part. As I didn’t know how the maze was really built, I feared that I was going to turn a corner and bump into someone else from the household or simply end up at a dead end. But I decided that as long as they didn’t know that I was listening in, I was going to take my chance to get some more information. Maybe Mike could fill in the blank spaces and straighten some question marks.  
“Whatever came of him by the way? Mr Moriarty?” Anthea asked.  
“I don’t know. And hopefully I will never hear of him again. If Mycroft manages to keep that story from Charles Magnussen, he will soon have one less worry in his life. He seems like just the right man to reign Sherlock in. I don’t know much about him, but he seems absolutely fascinated by Sherlock, poor fellow and yet determined enough to have him and tame his temper.  
“But it rather depends on Sherlock too, wouldn’t you say? And he doesn’t seem too keen on his brother’s idea to be honest,” Anthea ventured  
“Well, if he knows what’s good for him he’ll play along. Wouldn’t want to face the rage of Mycroft Holmes if he somehow messes this up.”  
They both laughed, then they continued walking for a little while longer, obviously enjoying each other’s company but changed the subject to something more mundane and less gossipy so my interest in following them around faded.   
With absolutely nothing to do I ventured outside the premises, towards the forest. As I had plenty of time to kill I decided to explore the surroundings beyond the estate and followed the path through the forest until I ended up on a field. The sight of a small fox caught my attention and I tried to follow it through the field, losing track of it after a while but continued nonetheless.   
A horse standing outside a barn was the next thing to peak my curiosity so I went up to it and patted it’s nose for a while. I had never ridden a horse, but they had always impressed me with their beauty and as a child I remember wanting to have one of my own. Maybe be a soldier in the riding cavalry when I grew up.   
As I stood there, putting my face to the horse’s mane and patting its shiny skin there suddenly came a loud bark behind me and the horse startled, pushing me forwards. Loosing my balance, I fell to the ground and scraped my knee on a sharp branch lying on the ground. I cried out in pain and saw blood oozing out from the wound.  
“What are you doing on my premises, boy?!”  
A black dog, whose bark had startled the horse, came in to my line of vision, still barking up a storm but at least not attacking me as I lay there on the ground with my bleeding knee, moaning in agony. Behind the dog a tall man hastily approached me. I didn’t recognize him at first, focused as I was by my injury but as he grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me up from the ground I recognized him as the man from the river, the one who took a swim naked while we were there. Victor Trevor.  
He looked angry and his grip on my arm was solid, with no suggestion of empathy for my pain or the fact that I was just a boy and not a thief or something more sinister.   
“I’m sorry, sir,” I hickuped, close to crying now, both from fear but also partly from the stinging pain in my knee. I normally never cried, hadn’t probably done it in years, but ever since coming to Donnithorpe a whole lot of feelings I usually didn’t feel or acknowledge had come up to the surface, making me more sensitive for some reason, more prone to lose control over my emotions. If it was the heat, the new atmosphere, my infatuation with Sherlock, all the small social mishaps I continued to make on a daily basis or the fact that I felt inferior to the others in the house and secretly hated myself for feeling that way, it all put to much strain on a normally very calm, stoic boy who never succumbed to anything presented to him. Here I was out of my depth. To make matters worse I was now in pain and was hold in a firm grip by a very angry man. My eyes were definitely beginning to sting.  
“What are you doing here? You’re trespassing on my land. I should send for the police or give you a good trashing. “  
“I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t know I was trespassing.”  
He looked at me closely, not calming but at least not getting angrier either. The fact that he was holding a riding crop in his other hand made me scared that he was going to put his words into action.   
“I’ve seen you before,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “By the river, with the people from the estate behind the forest. “  
As I didn’t dare speak I just nodded and his eyes left my face and slanted down to my wound.  
“We better clean that up before it gets worse,” he said and let go of my arm.   
I felt the skin pulsating from where his fingers had dug in and fear still surged through me although he had now released his hold. He ordered the dog to stop barking and it snuck away, into the barn next to us. Without another word Mr Trevor turned his back on me and started to walk towards the main building further away. For a split second I thought of maybe making a run for it, but the wound was hurting too much and he would have no problem catching up with me if he wanted to, so I limped after him.   
“Sit there,” he ordered me and pointed to a small wooden chair next to a large table covered in color stains and brushes.  
The interior of the house was rather empty, without many furniture. It was also very dirty, with windows full of spiderwebs and dust covering many areas. The only thing that was partly clean, except for the stains of paint, was the huge table. Probably because he used it frequently and dust didn’t have time to settle. I didn’t know much about painters or art, but I had the illusion that they lived under better circumstances than these. But maybe that was only the famous ones. This didn’t seem glamorous at all, quite the opposite and it was in stark contrast to Donnithorpe. That the owner of both properties was the same man was surprising, but maybe Mr Magnussen didn’t put any effort in to this old farmhouse the way he did with the grand estate. I wondered if he had even bothered visiting this house.  
Mr Trevor came back with a washbowl of water and a cloth to clean the wound with. He sat down in front of me and inspected the injury.   
“Well, better get started before the blood ruins your clothes. Pity to stain those, they look expensive.”  
“They’re e gift from Sherlock. Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I clarified when he didn’t react knowingly.  
“I don’t have much contact with the people living at the manor,” he muttered.  
He dampened the cloth in the water and then hesitated.  
“I put some iodine on this cloth. It might sting a bit but it’s good against infection so just suffer through it, alright? I’ll wash it clean with water first and then use the iodine part of the cloth to finish. Take a deep breath.”  
He still sounded grumpy but at least he was considerate in his actions now and although it did really sting I clenched my teeth together and breathed through the pain while he cleaned my wound.  
“Impressive. How old are you?”  
“I’ll be 14 on the 27th of this month.”  
“Hm. I would have thought younger actually. A bit small for your age, eh?”   
I felt indignation surge through me when he said that, my stature had always been something of a sore spot even if my sister once said that good things came in small packages. I didn’t like people pointing it out, I knew I was short, what was I supposed to do about it? We couldn’t all be tall like Sherlock or Mycroft. Or Victor Trevor for that matter.  
“No need to look offended, lad. I meant no harm.”   
When he had finished washing away the blood and dabbing on the iodine he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and started to tie it around my wound.  
“It will get soiled,” I pointed out.  
“So?”  
“Well, won’t you need that for yourself?”  
Now it was his turn to look offended.   
“Does it look like I can’t afford to give it away? I’ll let you know that I have plenty more of those, so you can just throw it away when you’re done. Now try walking, see if I tied it too tight.”  
I got up and took a few steps around the room. It felt alright.  
“Thank you, Mr Trevor.”  
“How do you know my name?”  
He looked suspicious again.  
“I was told when we met that day by the river.”  
“Who told you?”  
“I don’t remember. Maybe Philip Anderson.”  
“Never mind. Just don’t come here again snooping around the place like you did today. That horse isn’t for your amusement and neither is this place. I rent it so it’s mine. You can’t trespass on other people’s property. “  
“I promise. Is there something I could do for you in return? As a way of saying thank you for your help?” I asked. I didn’t exactly like him but he had helped me with the wound, the least I could do was make the offer even if I doubted he would accept, what could he possibly want from a young boy like me?  
Victor looked at me in silence, scrutinizing me closely before he spoke again.  
“Are you ever alone with Mr Holmes? The younger one I mean?”  
I blinked at him, surprised by the question.  
“Sherlock? Yes, sometimes.”  
“Alone enough to be able to give him a letter without anyone noticing?”  
I smirked, unable to resist it.  
“Easily. We play chess sometimes and take walks through the maze in the garden. We even vent to town together, just him and me. That’s where he bought me these clothes.”  
“Well, you’re lucky then. Getting to spend so much time with him.”  
“Yes,” I agreed.   
Victor got up from where he had been sitting and started to move towards a cabinet where he withdrew paper and a pencil.  
“Wait here while I write the letter.”  
“Is it a secret?” I asked with curiosity.   
“It’s more than that. Make sure than no one sees you give this to him. It will put him in a lot of trouble if it were to be discovered, do you understand? And you wouldn’t want that would you? You care about his welfare as much as I do, right?”  
“Yes, of course!”  
“Good then. I trust you with this.”  
He handed me the letter but didn’t let go of it at first, as if doubting me being able to perform the task he was asking of me.  
“I’ll make sure to deliver it without being caught,” I assured him, and he finally let go of the letter.  
The thrill of doing something illicit surged through me, clouding any further thoughts what this really was about. I was curious of course but too afraid of Mr Trevor to dare open the letter as soon as I had left his premises. Maybe it was a mystery or something? I knew Sherlock loved mysteries. He was often seen reclining with books about crime, murder and science. He had a fascination for the slightly morbid, life’s darker sides and loved experiments, uncovering the unknown. One evening he showed me an article about analyzing blood stains he had found in a science magazine. Where he had gotten hold of that magazine was a bit of a mystery in itself, as we were situated right out in the middle of nowhere, but I suspected that Gregory might have brought it with him from London as they seemed to share the same interest. They often spoke about the latest crimes reported in the newspapers, until Mycroft intervened, not liking his brother talking about such subjects, particularly not in front of myself and Mike.  
“John’s interested too,” Sherlock used to protest and truthfully, I was, but maybe from another perspective. Mycroft disagreed though and put an end to the conversation.  
So maybe, if Mr Trevor somehow knew Sherlock and wanted to send him a little mystery to solve, aware that Mycroft wouldn’t approve? In my naiveté I couldn’t think of any other reason why the letter should be kept a secret and did my best to hide it until I found the right moment to be alone with Sherlock.  
Upon my return from Armitage farm I found him in the library, lying on the sofa, with a book about chemistry in front of him.  
“Am I disturbing you?” I asked as I entered the room.  
“Not really. I’ve read this one before. And I lack the materials to try out some of the things that’s written in the book so it’s mostly theoretical amusement for me. It would be better if I could try it out practically instead, but you know Mycroft, never a source for amusement exactly and he holds the small sum of money we have left. When I grow up though and leave this place, I’m going to have everything I need to have my own laboratory. When I turn 18 and come of age, no one is going to tell me what to do anymore. “  
I smiled. At 17 he was old enough to long for his freedom but still too young to grasp the realities of being an adult. Although I was three years younger, my upbringing, with only my mother and sister, living quite poorly and having to work hard for an acceptable existence, I better understood what life was really like. Sherlock had been brought up in this secluded house with servants and money up until a certain point, nice clothes and a way of living that hadn’t prepared him for any harsh realities. But maybe he saw opportunities where I saw limitations?  
As I sat down in the armchair next to him his eyes suddenly narrowed down on my injured leg. What came out wasn’t what I had expected though.  
“Is that handkerchief Victor Trevor’s?”  
I looked down on my knee, where my injury was being protected by the handkerchief Mr Trevor had given me. The blood had started to seep through but there were no initials embroidered to the fabric or any other distinctions to it that could point out it’s original owner. Nonetheless Sherlock had seemed to recognize it straight away.   
“Yes. I had a little accident and he, kindly, helped me take care or the wound.”  
“How lucky for you that he was around to help you,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes still on the handkerchief. Suddenly he sprang up from the sofa and went down on his knees in front of me.   
“We should change that for you, the blood is seeping through.”   
He started to unwind the knot Victor Trevor had tied and removed the soiled cloth. For a second he looked uncertain of what to do with it but put it on the floor beside him and fished out his own handkerchief from his breast pocket.   
“We should have it washed and returned to him. Thank him for the use of it,” Sherlock said as he attended to my injury.  
“He said I could keep it, that he had plenty more. “  
Sherlock raised his eyes and looked in to mine. A small smile hinted at his lips for a second but disappeared almost instantly, as if never having been there.  
“Well then, I shall have it cleaned anyway, it’s a rather fine one. I might use it myself if he insists on not having it returned.”  
“He sent something for you by the way,” I said when he had finished tying the new handkerchief.  
I stuck my hand into my pocket and retrieved the carefully folded letter.  
Sherlock’s eyes widened marginally and the look in his eyes had a glint of hunger to them. It was a new expression, not something I had seen on him before. The closest to it had been when talking to Gregory about the crimes in the paper. A particularly gruesome murder in Bradford that had been reported by the papers during the last couple of weeks because the story contained so many spectacular details that the public never got tired of reading about it, had almost brought about the same excitement in Sherlock, but not quite. He and Gregory had speculated about possible motives and suspects until Mycroft had told them off, rather firmly, to stop discussing the subject. Mycroft was not alone in thinking it improper to talk about it, both Mr and Mrs Vernet as well as Anthea looked very uncomfortable when hearing, primarily Sherlock, discussing the case with such flippancy.  
“He asked me to hand you this letter,” I said and fished it out from my pocket.  
He looked down on it, hesitating for a second then taking it. But instead of opening the letter he put it away.  
“Aren’t you going to read it?”  
“Not now. Later perhaps. How does your leg feel?”  
I was slightly disappointed by him not reading the letter straight away, I felt very curious as to the content of it, but it seemed that he wanted to keep it to himself. Or maybe he wasn’t that curious about it, maybe it was just boring stuff adults wrote to one another. But somehow I doubted it.  
He started to pull my sock up but kept his fingers on the hem, hesitating.  
“You mustn’t tell anyone about the letter. That Mr Trevor gave it to you to deliver to me, do you understand? Not to Mycroft, not even to Mike.”  
I nodded but he still looked worried.  
“I feel like I can trust you, I’m not wrong about that, John?”  
“No, of course not. You can always trust me.”  
“Because it would get us all into a lot of trouble, even you, if Mycroft for example ever found out about it.”  
“You have my word,” I answered solemnly.   
He nodded and smiled a little towards me before taking the soiled handkerchief and getting up to a standing position. Then he left the room. I stayed behind for a while, resting my leg a little and leafing through the chemistry book Sherlock had left behind on the sofa. I didn’t understand a word of it.


	6. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's role as a messenger turns in to a fulltime job and Mycroft's patience with Sherlock is wearing thin

As I was walking back to my room, I happened to look through the windows I was passing on my way and spotted Sherlock lying in a hammock between two trees, reading the letter. He was smiling to himself as he clutched it between his fingers. The breeze was rustling through his curls, making them sway lightly over his forehead and even from the distance, and with the window between us, I could see his eyes glistening. For his sake I hoped no one else was seeing him right now if he was so determined to keep the letter a secret. I couldn’t help wondering what was in it.  
Later, as I was sitting by the fountain, cooling my hands by dipping them in the water, watching the droplets glistening in the descending sunlight, I heard someone calling my name.  
As I turned my head I saw Mr Magnussen approaching me.  
“Hermes,” he said as he reached me,” can you do me a favor?”  
“Why do you call me that?” I asked with a confused look on my face.  
“Well, Hermes was the messenger of the gods in ancient Greek, the go-between, delivering news and notes between them. I thought that since you were so obliged to help me the other day, you might want to help again?”  
“With what?”  
“Tell Sherlock that we’re missing a fourth person to our game of croquet. I seem to have lost sight of him, he’s nowhere to be found. As I’m told that you two are close I’m sure you know where he might be and bring him to me. Dead or alive,” he added and smiled without real warmth to his smile. As if meaning to joke but not really knowing how to do it.  
I nodded and got up from my position when a hand suddenly fell on my shoulder.  
“Have you two been together a lot today? Now that you friend is ill?”  
I looked down on his hand. It had long, thin fingers, their hold on me looking a bit like claws, the hold was much firmer than the handshake he had given me the first time we met.  
“Not really. I saw him this the afternoon in the library, we talked a bit but that’s about it. I’ve entertained myself mostly.”  
His eyes stayed on me for a second longer before withdrawing his hand.  
“Your knee’s bleeding,” he commented dryly, “better go see to it after you’ve found Sherlock, so it doesn’t ruin your clothes.”  
I looked down and saw that blood had started to seep through the new handkerchief as well. Slowly I nodded without raising my head to look at him. It felt like he knew everything that had happened to me that afternoon, despite it being a ridiculous notion of course, because, how could he?  
“You better hurry up and find him then? So you can tend to your wound afterwards. Maybe he can help you.”  
“Yes, Mr Magnussen. I’ll hurry. “  
And with that I turned around and started to run. I had no idea where Sherlock could be but went to the normal places where he used to hang out, like the maze, the green house, in the hammock where I had seen him lying earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen. I ventured further from the premises, towards the little pond that bordered to the beginning of the forest. It was the same path that had led me to Armitage farm earlier that day. My wound had started to sting a bit and I could feel the blood trickle down my leg now, so I stopped by the little bridge leading over the pond. I didn’t want to continue any longer, I had no idea where Sherlock could be and the wound needed tending to. Something in the back of my head told me that I needed to find Sherlock, both for his sake and mine, but I couldn’t run around like a clueless when he could be anywhere. I was just starting to turn when I heard a twig snap. It came from the direction of the forest and next I saw his familiar figure approaching on the small path towards me, still unaware of my presence.  
He was dressed in just his white shirt and the linen trousers; the same outfit he wore the first time I saw him. The jacket he had been wearing earlier, in the library, he had ditched somewhere. His hair was in slight disarray and his cheeks flushed, he was moving quickly through the forest and seemed lost in his own thoughts because he didn’t see me until he stepped on to the bridge. He startled at the sight of me and then frowned.  
“What are you doing out here?” He asked but didn’t stop his pace.  
“I was looking for you. Mr Magnussen sent me.”  
As he was walking quite fast he had already past me and I had started to go after him when he stopped abruptly.  
“Why? What time is it?”  
“I’m not sure. Six maybe.”  
He looked relieved.  
“We don’t dine until seven thirty, so no hurry then. “  
“He was looking for you, they are going to play croquet and needed a fourth person.”  
“Croquet? How dull! I don’t feel like playing that right now. Tell him for me?”  
“Can’t you do it yourself?” I asked.  
I saw a little leaf, stuck in his hair. It felt out of place, Sherlock was usually so pristine even if he didn’t follow protocol when it came to clothes and how to dress properly. Only when needed to. Like that time in church. Or the evening when Mr Magnussen came to visit. Probably because Mycroft had ordered him to do it somehow.  
“Oh, I have a headache. I think I need to go straight to my room and lie down for a while, so I can get through dinner later. Please, will you tell him?”  
He turned his head and shot me a pleading look over his shoulder. He didn’t smile or try to charm me in to doing it, but he had a way of being persuasive without trying to be. It instantly made my stomach flutter in a funny way and I heard myself agreeing to do it despite being irritated for being used as a tool to deliver messages between people, especially when one of the recipients was Mr Magnussen. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was but something about him made me feel a bit uneasy. Maybe it was the dead eye stare behind the glasses or the notion that he held Sherlock’s destiny in his thin clammy hands.  
“Alright,” I agreed somewhat grumpily.  
As we continued toward the house he slowed down a bit as we came closer, so I could come up next to him. He didn’t look in my direction but his attention was now on me again, as opposed to how it had been when he first came out of the forest. I felt like I had interrupted his thoughts back then, now he was amicable once again.  
“So, what are you doing tomorrow?”  
“I don’t know…?”  
“Are you going for a walk perhaps?”  
I looked up at him and although I could only see his profile, the mirth in his tone gave him away, he was up to something and I had a good guess as to what that was. The mystery Mr Trevor had given him must have been a good one.  
“Well, I might pass Armitage farm again, thank Mr Trevor for his help. Tell him that I delivered his letter. “  
I searched for his eyes, but he resolutely looked away, so I couldn’t see the expression in them. But his mouth twitched a bit.  
“Sounds like a very good idea. Maybe you could bring with you a letter to him? A reply to the letter he sent me.”  
“I’ll do it gladly, I like doing things you ask of me,” I answered truthfully and now he did turned his head towards me. He returned the smile slightly but more than not he looked confused.  
“Wy is that?”  
“Because…”  
I hesitated. I liked him very much, I imagined I might even love him. I hadn’t been in love before, so I didn’t know how that should feel exactly but considering that thoughts of him took up a large part of my time, that he made me blush and smile like an insecure idiot and made both stomach and heart flutter with emotion, I had come to the conclusion that it must be love that I was feeling. But I couldn’t say that to him, it would have been embarrassing. He was almost like an adult, the youngest one among them but still a part of their group and not thought of as belonging with me and Mike. He didn’t play silly games anymore, he dressed in grown up-clothes, he smoked cigarettes and was allowed to stay up late with the others while Mike and I were sent to bed. Those three years between us could just as well have been ten. It wouldn’t always be so, when we both were adults it wouldn’t make a difference, but right now it did and I couldn’t confess how I felt about him, afraid that he might laugh it off as ridiculous, but more realistically he would probably look at me with pity in his eyes. Because what would someone like him do with a little boy like me? Someone like him who was chased after by Mr Magnussen and was just on the cusp of adulthood. I felt pity for myself just thinking about it, it was truly a lost cause. But I had to say something.  
“Well, because I like you. Very much. Because you kept my secret about the clothes. I appreciate loyalty.”  
He raised his eyebrows as if the thought had never occurred to him.  
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I like you too.”  
Not the way I like you, I thought bitterly to myself, but I smiled to him all the same.  
After dinner, on the way to my room, he came up to me and handed me his letter and I took it to Mr Trevor the next day. It was the beginning of many trips back and forth between them that summer. Sometimes there were no new letters, just verbal answers to something that must have been written, one word like: I do or Agreed or just simply Yes.  
I felt a bit jealous of their game and wished that I could have been included more than just being the go-between, but I still refused to take a sneak peek to see what was written in the letters. They were merely notes, never sealed, so I could easily have read them if I had wanted to, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to betray Sherlock’s trust in me.  
Mr Magnussen was spending a lot of time at the house and made it somewhat difficult to both deliver and receive the letters from Sherlock’s end. Victor Trevor lived alone on the farm and never seemed to do anything of importance, so it was easy when I was with him. Back at Donnithorpe everyone’s eyes seemed constantly glued to Sherlock, if it wasn’t Mr Magnussen it was Mycroft and the two of them were like hawks watching a prey, so we needed to be very careful. That, on the other hand, was what made it exciting. I felt adrenalin rush through me every time we had to sneak under their noses, I could just imagine their disapproval if they were to find out. Mycroft was very strict with Sherlock and I noticed that Sherlock never read his crime novels in front of his brother anymore and didn’t bring up the subject of the Bradford case with Gregory again.  
Sherlock was expected to stay at home as much as possible, to entertain Mr Magnussen and even if he was sullen about it and didn’t provide the best company, he at least did what he was told. How he found time to work on the puzzles Mr Trevor sent him I didn’t understand. As far as I knew they never met face to face, although Sherlock sometimes disappeared for short periods of time and was nowhere to be found. But he never mentioned having met Mr Trevor, so I suspected that he was working on solving their mystery game somewhere where he could have some privacy.  
Mr Magnussen was absolutely fascinated by Sherlock and tried his best to keep up with him. Unfortunately for him and much to Mycroft’s chagrin, he wasn’t getting much response in return. Sherlock loitered about, mostly bored out of his mind or trying to smuggle me letters to give Victor Trevor. We became very skilled in the art of handing pieces of paper to each other without anyone noticing.  
One afternoon Philip was taking photographs with his camera and Mr Magnussen asked him to take one of Sherlock, “as a remembrance of your beauty when we’re not together” as he explained it. He was a rather cold and dry man normally, but Sherlock brought something out in him, something almost bordering on obsessiveness and he was particularly taken with Sherlock’s appearance. He wasn’t allowed to touch of course, they were merely in the courting stages of their acquaintance and barely that, but everyone could see that he was dying to stretch out his fingers and trace them over the younger man’s smooth skin or shiny curls. I felt the same way.  
Philip was obliging, probably because it was Mr Magnussen asking him to do it and ordered Sherlock to stand still in front of the fountain, posing turning partly away from the camera. As I was a daily companion to Sherlock I was allowed to stand in front of him and I felt his hand touching mine with a small note leaving his fingers and being pressed into my palm. I closed my hand discreetly.  
“Hurry up, Philip! You’re boring John by forcing him to stand still for so long.”  
“No one asked him to be in the picture. As a matter of fact, wouldn’t it be more suitable if you joined Sherlock in front of the camera, Charles?”  
“I want John to be in the picture with me,” Sherlock protested and clutched my shoulder. “So just take the damn picture and be done with it.”  
Philip scowled behind the camera but finally obliged and clicked the shutter. Sherlock released me and I started to walk away, heading for Armitage farm with my letter. In the background I heard Philip talking and a loud groan from Sherlock.  
“Now Charles, go stand next to Sherlock and face him while you, Sherlock, turn towards the camera. It will be a perfect picture of the two of you. You could have it framed and stand on your bedroom table. Stop scowling, Sherlock, it needs to look perfect!”  
One afternoon, as I was strolling around, minding my own business and actually missing Mike a bit, I heard Mycroft’s voice resonating through the air. I wasn’t particularly interested in meeting him, he still made me feel inferior whenever we crossed paths, so I hid behind a tree, waiting for him to pass. As I heard my name being mentioned I pricked up my ears trying to hear what he said and who he was talking to.  
“It’s nice of you letting John follow you around like puppy, I’m rather surprised as you usually abhor company for a lengthier period of time. And with a child no less. It’s impressive.”  
“Well, he isn’t like other boys at that age, he’s more mature I would say. Besides, his friend’s fallen ill, aren’t we supposed to entertain him in the meantime?”  
“You never bothered with that chore before. In fact I remember quite distinctly how you refused to offer your companionship to Mike two years ago, based on the notion that he was a child.”  
“Well, he was! And so was I. I’m more mature now, isn’t that what you’re always asking of me, to grow up? Besides, what else is John supposed to do out here in the eternal heat with nothing but stupid garden games and wandering around the estate to entertain him? I’m bored every day and I’m older. Imagine how bored he must be, as a child!”  
I dared to take a peak around the tree trunk and saw Mycroft and Sherlock slowly descending down the stairs leading to the orchard, a few feet away from me. To my relief they couldn’t see me, their backs would soon turn against the tree I was hiding behind and I felt safe where I stood.  
“Yes, I know all about your issues with boredom, Sherlock. Hard to imagine anyone else suffering even more from the same predicament. “  
“Very droll, Mycroft. I so easily forget there is a vein of humor running through that stiff rod you call a body, or maybe it is because you put all your energy nowadays into imitating a stuffy old bore with a morality complex instead of rejuvenating your very deeply buried sense of fun. I do remember you being able to laugh when we were younger. A strange notion to imagine nowadays but nonetheless, I remember it. Vividly. “  
Mycroft sighed and looked annoyed. I could only se his profile as he had stopped and was now facing his little brother, but his whole persona radiated exasperation.  
“Oh grow up, Sherlock. Maybe you should stop spending so much time with John if this is the outcome his company is resulting in. You seem to grow more immature by the day, something I must confess I didn’t thought possible after last years shenanigans, but here we are, several months later and years of backpedaling in both moral and intellectual growth. Fascinating if it weren’t so disheartening to witness.”  
“What is it you want from me, Mycroft?” Sherlock sighed. “To become an idiotic bore like everyone else? Fulfill the dreams you were unable to make happen for yourself? It’s not my fault things didn’t turn out as you thought they would when you were younger. Besides it’s not too late, you’re only 24, not 44 like you make the impression of being. You could still go out there and make a name for yourself. “  
“I have a name, thank you very much.”  
“Yes, but it’s weighed down by our parent’s mistakes and your greed for restoring something that is irrevocably lost. It’s like you’re trapped in this place that long ago lost all relevance to anyone besides you. Getting it back won’t change anything. Marrying me off to Charles Magnussen won’t fulfill anything. He’s probably going to tear it down eventually and sell the land anyway. Why would he have any interest in this peace of ancient rubble in the middle of nowhere in a country that isn’t even his?”  
The sound of Mycroft’s palm hitting Sherlock’s cheek echoed through the peaceful summer afternoon and I startled at the sight of it, shocked to the core. So was Sherlock who slowly raised his hand to touch the cheek that was now blossoming red in contrast to his otherwise very pale skin.  
“Stop it, Sherlock! I’m tired of hearing you complain about your existence, how horrible a life you’re living. Must be awful to be just seventeen and se no end of things to complain about, like a child spoilt rotten. You have no idea what life is really like and I’m not sure you ever will, but hear me out when I tell you this: Mr Magnussen is your ticket to something better, a ticket for us all really. You, me, the people that have worked in this household for decades, the restoration of our family name, a name you have done your best to destroy yourself in various forms on several occasions. I’m tired of it. You start showing Charles some attention and you better start now, before it’s too late and it becomes yet another stone in the wall that is your creation of failures against our legacy. I mean it Sherlock; my patience is starting to wear thin and soon Charles’s will too.”  
Sherlock stared at Mycroft, seemingly unable to speak for once. Then he turned on his heel and started off, quickly, away from Mycroft and myself, disappearing out of sight within seconds. Mycroft remained standing where he was for minute longer, looking in the direction Sherlock had disappeared to, then slowly turning and walking back to the house. Quickly I pressed myself against the tree so he wouldn’t see me but I probably shouldn’t have bothered, the look on his face suggested he was locked inside his own mind right now, with no thought for the outside world.


	7. Beginning to waiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out what sort of letters he is delivering

Mike started to feel better and the spots were slowly disappearing so after little more than a week I was permitted to visit his rooms again. It was actually a huge relief. Even if the game of exchanging notes between Victor Trevor and Sherlock had kept me occupied for a while it was now beginning to grow stale and boring. After Mycroft’s little outburst I tried to stay clear for a bit, not wanting to be a part of something that was causing a rift between the brothers. Even if Mycroft didn’t know about the letter exchange it was clearly the cause for Sherlock not showing enough attention to Charles Magnussen, with his mind constantly occupied with either sending or receiving notes and I decided that I wanted a break from the drama. So when Sherlock summoned me after breakfast one day, sitting in the music room in front of the piano with a letter in his lap, my shoulders slumped a bit and I protested meekly when he asked me if I could go with his letter to Armitage farm. He seldom mentioned Victor Trevor’s name, mostly asked if I could go to the farm with a delivery and I thought at first that he didn’t care for the person behind the letters, just the mystery in them. But one afternoon we struck up a conversation about said Mr Trevor and it turned out that Sherlock was quite familiar with him, far more than I had gathered. Even if his information didn’t extend beyond the formal, like his paintings, his appearance, his age and his manner it was still much more than he knew of most other people, including the ones he was sharing a house with. He didn’t speak in any particularly fond tone or with a huge interest but nonetheless, I was struck by his knowledge of the man, especially as he claimed that they had rarely met.  
“I’m not sure that I can continue delivering letters to Mr Trevor anymore.” I said  
“Why not?”  
He looked surprised and slightly disappointed.  
“Mike is getting better, he will be out of bed any day now”.  
“Ah, I see. Well maybe you could try anyway, for me? Not as often of course, but maybe once or twice at least?!  
Before I had the chance to protest more sternly the door opened and Sherlock quickly pushed the note into my hand and rose to shield me from view. It was Mr Magnussen.  
Something dark swept over his features, gone in a second but memorable however fleeting. He looked almost jealous at the sight of us together and admittedly Sherlock looked guilty too, as if admitting something untoward taking place.  
“Well, what is going on in here? A little scene between lovers perhaps?” Magnussen asked, clasping his hands behind his back and giving us both a penetrating look. His voice sounded lighthearted, but his eyes were thunderous, betraying something completely different than what his words were saying.  
I put the note in my pocket and appeared beside Sherlock so as to not seem so suspicious, hiding behind his back. Magnussen looked right at me when he continued to speak.  
“I heard Sherlock was in here and naturally hoped to get some time with him alone. Seems I was out of luck yet again. You play a hard game, John Watson, one can seldom catch him without his shadow nearby. And you have the advantage of sharing the house with him both night and day while I must make do with just a couple of hours and have the hindrance of spending my nights at Beecher cottage. Maybe I have been calling you by the wrong name? Instead of Hermes it’s actually Eros?”  
His smile grew wider and showed some teeth. It didn’t look completely friendly although I knew he was joking of course, so I returned the smile and then excused myself, leaving Sherlock to deal with Magnussen on his own.  
As I came out of sight from the house I finally stopped. I was almost angry by now. Here I was again, with a letter in my hand, this time against my will. I felt angry at myself for not pretesting more strongly, angry with Sherlock for using me as his messenger boy whenever he felt like it, angry at Mycroft for being so suffocating towards Sherlock, hindering him from enjoying his little crime mysteries in the open, being forced to play this game of secrets instead. I looked down at the letter in my hand, wondering about the content of it, what mystery could be so great that it forced Sherlock to seek it out again and again? Well, if they were going to use me like this, I might as well be fully informed of the whole story and for the first time, I felt truly justified to open the letter and read what it said. I didn’t get very far because the first thing that caught my eye was the line dearest darling. It wasn’t written in Sherlock’s handwriting so at first confusion overthrew me. But as my eyes descended further down the paper, in a flash I saw the whole gist of it and it made me feel nauseous.  
It was a love letter. From Victor Trevor, where he, after showering the recipient in flowery endearments, asked for a meeting by the creek at half past five this afternoon. Under the question was Sherlocks handwriting and he had answered with a yes.  
I didn’t read any further. My eyes started to moist and both anger, sadness, heartbreak and betrayal all fought for domination inside my chest. There was no mystery game going in. How could I have been so stupid, so incredibly naïve?  
My thoughts went back to that day when I caught Sherlock getting out from the forest with a leaf stuck in his hair. It had stared me right in the face and yet my brain had refused to puzzle the pieces together, as if preventing me to see the truth, shielding me from the pain I was now feeling when there was no longer any way for me to see anything but the actual facts. I wondered if Mycroft knew? Mr Magnussen? Surely not, they would have stopped it from continuing.  
But still, it suddenly felt like I couldn’t trust anyone anymore. I had a good impulse to just rip the letter to shreds and let the pieces disappear in the wind but somehow I couldn’t do it. I sat down with my back against a tree and pressed my palms against my eye sockets, preventing any tears from emerging. I felt absolutely heartbroken. I had loved Sherlock from the moment I had laid eyes on him, but evidently he loved someone else. Not that I had ever imagined him loving me back, I was just a stupid schoolboy, but still, the thought of him loving someone else tore my heart to pieces. That the person he loved was Victor Trevor made it even worse.  
I didn’t like him at all, even less so now that I knew he had Sherlock’s heart. Or at least his interest. Sherlock had not written the same endearments in his answer to Victor but at the very least there was something that made him agree to meet time and time again and keep sending those letters back and forth.  
I didn’t know how much time had past before I finally rose to my feet and started walking towards Armitage farm, my back sore and my feet felt leaden. I clenched my teeth together. This would be the last time I would be any sort of messenger between them.  
As I approached I could see Victor Trevor coming out from the barn, the black dog in tow. He was carrying a bucket of water and looked disheveled. He usually didn’t put too much effort into his appearance but today he looked even worse, sweat gleaning on his forehead, brown stains covering his clothes that were quite torn and dirty to begin with. What Sherlock saw in this man was truly a mystery I thought morosely.  
“Oi, Mr postman! Have you got something for me today?”  
“Yes. But it will be the last time. I won’t be bringing anymore letters.”  
His face immediately scrunched together in annoyance and he stopped to put the bucket down.  
“And why is that then? Sherlock is counting on you to help him. Help us. So am I.”  
I saw his eyes narrow as he scrutinized my face and I felt anger course inside me. What right had he of demanding anything? He meant nothing to me, I only cared about Sherlock but right now I was pretty angry at him as well.  
“Nevertheless, I can’t do it anymore.”  
“You heartless little shit!” He grumbled and kicked the bucket so hard it sent the water splashing around his legs and on the dog still standing beside him.  
When I didn’t reply, just handed him the letter I had with me, the final one, he ripped it out of my hands, eyed it hastily, probably only searching for Sherlocks answer and then stuffed it inside his pocket before turning his attention to me once more.  
“These are not ordinary letters you know…,” he began.  
“I know,” I interrupted him, because I had nothing to lose now. The situation couldn’t possibly get any worse.  
“Oh, so you’ve read them, have you?”  
“Not all of them. Just this one. But I can imagine what the others said, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”  
“Then you understand the feelings behind the words in them? These letters are like a lifeline to us, our only way of communication. If you stop helping us we have no other way of passing those letters between us. We won’t be able to see each other, what with him being locked up by that brother of his in the house all the time. “  
I stared at him and felt torn. I knew how much Sherlock hated being at Donnithorpe, listening to Mycroft’s demands all day long, being forced to spend his time with Charles Magnussen, wasting his time in a pointless existence. If he had managed to find a little glimmer of something that made him happy and I could help him with that, was I really so selfish as to deny him that pleasure because of my own hurt feelings?  
“I can see that you are upset, and I know how you feel about Sherlock, that you care about him. I’ve seen it in your face, heard it in your voice when you talk about him. I understand that this is difficult for you, with you being a guest at that house, having to sneak around with illicit love letters that could get us all in a lot of trouble if someone was to find out. We are very grateful to you for helping us, I hope Sherlock has made that clear also. But the thing is, we are totally helpless if you abandon us now. It means the world to us and is such a little matter for you, no real bother at all.”  
I could see the frustration marring his features, as if both angry, scared and upset at the same time. He probably hated the idea of being dependent on a boy for his own happiness.  
“I beg of you. Don’t stop helping us. Sherlock would be heartbroken, I’m sure of it. As would I. “  
I chewed my lip, indecisive, not knowing what to say.  
“Look, come with me. It’s too hot standing here in the sun arguing. Come inside, I’ll get you something to drink,” he said finally, and I followed him in to the main house.  
It was as dirty as it always was but I had gotten used to it now and sat down by the table while he fetched me a mug of water. I wondered if he and Sherlock ever met here, in this house. It didn’t seem plausible, considering the surroundings, it was hard to imagine Sherlock in his white shirt lying down in this disarray of dirt and dust.  
“What’s that on your clothes?” I asked while he poured himself a glass of beer. He looked down, as if not remembering the state he was in and then shrugged.  
“It’s the mare. She died this morning, while trying to deliver a foal. It was stillborn so now I have no horse at all. Or Mr Magnussen doesn’t have one if you want to be correct about it.”  
I looked shocked. I had never heard of anything like it, a horse dying from trying to give birth. I remembered her soft nose and felt a pang of sadness in my chest.  
“What happened,” I finally asked.  
“Well, she ran away last summer. When I finally found her, she was impregnated by the stallion down the farm north over. I didn’t realize immediately of course, I’m no expert on horses and they tend to carry their babies for close to a year, so I didn’t understand until recently really. She was acting like she was sick, tried to deliver it during the night but since the foal was stillborn it somehow got stuck and she bled to death. I found them in the barn after breakfast and have spent my time cleaning in there up until now.”  
“How terrible,” I whispered. This day was truly the most awful I had experienced since coming to Norfolk, it just continued delivering blows.  
“Well, I don’t know. She had a full life, even experienced a little love, that’s not so bad really, far better than many others. That stallion is a looker too, all black and haughty. A bit like my Sherlock.”  
I grimaced at the implication.  
“Don’t go overthinking that last part, lad. Lovemaking is no business for a 13-year old.”  
“I’m turning 14 next week.”  
“Still.”  
“My mother says that’s for married couples and making children, not a thing to enjoy freely.”  
Trevor laughed mirthlessly.  
“Well, people who say those kinds of things are the envious ones who never experienced true love. I’m not going to go into specifics or anything but it can be a beautiful thing between two people, nothing to be ashamed of and certainly not only for making babies. “  
“Are you and Sherlock doing that?”  
“I’m not answering that question.”  
“But you’re not married.? Isn’t there a law against that or something? I’m pretty sure it’s in the bible that you shouldn’t do it outside marriage.”  
“Well, I never was a fan of the holy book, so I wouldn’t know. But I do know that love is the most important thing you could ever experience and that the act of lovemaking is a natural part of it. Noting to feel ashamed of. “  
“Are you supposed to get married if you do it? Is that the plan?”  
He looked troubled for a bit and stared at his hands.  
“Well, usually that is the outcome. When possible. But I’m not getting in to that with you now.”  
“But you haven’t really explained anything.”  
“I believe what we really were discussing, before going of on this tangent, was whether you would continue helping me and Sherlock?”  
I still wasn’t sure, it was all too confusing and muddled with feelings and besides, I didn’t know how I would manage it when Mike got out of bed tomorrow. But to my own surprise and his too, I imagined, I finally nodded. It didn’t feel good and I saw nothing but misery for me continuing this but for now, I would help them.  
Sherlock and Victor Trevor weren’t the only ones using my services as a messenger. Charles Magnussen had asked me to deliver verbal messages to Sherlock in the past and that same afternoon, as I was back at the house, wandering through it alone for my final day of solitude, I stumbled upon him in the salon, sitting with The Times in one of the wingback chairs while a maid was cleaning out the fireplace in front of him. The look on her face was one with a hint of mortification to it, and it felt as if I had stumbled upon a scene just having played out, with her in the unfavorable part. I tried to back out but he had already turned his head and transfixed me with his eyes.  
“Ah, Hermes! Lost track of your protégé? I must confess, so have I.”  
“No, he’s in the music room,” I answered warily.  
“Ah, well then. Make use of your nickname and deliver a message from me, would you?”  
I just nodded, afraid to refuse, but getting tired of running errands for everyone all the time. I didn’t want to come off as being rude but it was beginning to grate my nerves to be ordered about.  
“There’s going to be cricket match this Saturday, the locals against us, it’s some sort of tradition I’m told. “  
I nodded again, wondering where he was going with this.  
“Well Sherlock can’t be bothered to play of course, he’s not interested in sports, but Mycroft told me that sometimes he’s known to have performed at the victory party afterwards. With his violin. Providing we win of course.”  
Magnussen held my gaze steadily as he continued. In front of him the maid got to her feet, apparently finished cleaning now. As Magnussen’s concentration was on me she just curtsied quickly and left the room.  
“I want you to ask Sherlock if he would do us the honor of playing something on Saturday? Something traditional perhaps. I’m not that familiar with British music I’m afraid but I’m sure he knows how to please everyone.”  
“Yes, Mr Magnussen. “  
“Oh, and John. Maybe you would be interested in being a part of our team? As a reserve? The twelfth man I believe it’s called. It was originally to be Mike but as he is still a little weak from his illness Gregory Lestrade suggested you.”  
That actually cheered me up a bit. Being a twelfth man didn’t automatically mean you would get to play but there was still a chance and it was something new to do. I was beginning to grow bored of the nothingness of my existence here and welcomed any changes.  
“Gladly, Mr Magnussen. Thank you.”  
“By all means. Now, go ask Sherlock if he will play for us.”  
In the music room Sherlock was sitting with his violin on his knees, tending to his bow with a piece of rosin and a cloth. We hadn’t really talked since that morning and I wasn’t sure how the land lay between us. He didn’t look up as I came in, but that didn’t mean anything, half the time he couldn’t be bothered with common politeness.  
I cleared my throat to make sure I had his attention and then forwarded Magnussen’s question. Without taking his eyes of the bow he snorted.  
“Well, tell him that if he wants me to perform, he’ll have to sing something in return. Greensleeves perhaps, if he’s so determined on it being traditional.  
With that I was dismissed.  
Mr Magnussen looked taken aback when I delivered the answer.  
“But I don’t sing?” He blurted out, confused.  
If not for the reason that he scared me slightly, the same way Mycroft Holmes did, I would have pitied him. I could see that when something concerned Sherlock he didn’t really know what to do to get through the barrier. Sherlock was an obvious expert on the subject of skirting the issue of their courtship, he kept Magnussen at arm’s length without being too obvious about it and he was probably driving the man mad with his elusiveness. Magnussen didn’t know about Victor Trevor so for him it was impossible to understand what kind of game Mycroft and Sherlock were playing with him, one brother promising all that he wanted in the shape of his younger sibling while the other played beyond hard to get.  
“I think he might have joked, perhaps,” I ventured.  
“I must confess that I don’t always understand everything that comes out of his mouth. He’s very ambiguous.”  
I nodded and left him pondering the meaning of Sherlock’s answer.  
As I walked back to my room I found myself pondering his words too. Why had he chosen to name Greensleeves? I knew it to be a piece Henry VIII had written for Anne Boleyn, another man smitten beyond all rime and reason. Was it an intentional dig at Magnussen? With Sherlock, who knew?


	8. Time to play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to play cricket and Magnussen steps up his game when Sherlock and Victor find it hard to hide their emotions in public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know next to nothing about cricket, it is just a plot device in this chapter.

As Saturday came, the sun was becoming close to insufferable and there was an anticipation surrounding everyone in the household. Mike, who had now recovered, ate breakfast with me and Mycroft, like before his illness. He was still a little pale and you could se scars from some of the poxes on his face but otherwise he was his usual jolly self, eating with gusto and trying to catch up with everything that had happened while he had been confined to bed rest. There wasn’t much to inform him about, nothing I could discuss openly anyway, and Mycroft gave the morning paper his full attention so going through the last couple of days only took a minute.  
“How did you entertain yourself without me?”  
“Well, I took a lot of walks around the area.”  
“Where to exactly?”   
“Oh, I don’t know. Through the forest, by the field on the other side of it, those parts mostly.”  
“Did you see Armitage farm?”  
From the corner of my eye I could se Mycroft lowering his paper.  
“Well, yes. I saw it from afar. At least I think that’s what I saw. I’m not sure, I never went so far as to find out what house it was.”  
“Didn’t you meet that Trevor fellow? He’s always skulking around the area thereabouts.”  
“No, I don’t think I did,” I said and took a huge bite from a piece of bread with marmalade on top.  
Around noon we all went down to the village for the cricket match. Sherlock and Mycroft were, for once, striking up a leading duo while the rest of us followed them. Mr Magnussen joined us as we arrived and presented the rest of the team to myself, Gregory and Philip.   
“Aren’t you going to play, Mr Holmes?”  
The question was delivered by a summer guest from Beecher cottage. An acquittance of Mr Magnussen who rented that house and let Magnussen stay the nights there while everyone at Donnithorpe enjoyed their last summer together at the mansion.   
Sherlock gave the man a withering look.  
“I don’t play, I find it boring.”  
“Yes, well, not everyone feels that way, Sherlock. Try to be a bit more considerate of other people’s interests,” Mycroft interjected.   
“What for?”  
Sherlock didn’t bother staying to hear the answer and Mycroft shot him an irritable look that of course went unnoticed. Mr Magnussen put his arm around my shoulders and led me out on to the grass court.  
“Come on, John. Let’s prove him wrong. Let’s impress the unimpressionable Sherlock Holmes with our sportsmanship. It’s quite a beautiful game if you learn how to appreciate it. You have played before of course?”  
I had, luckily, at school so I had an inkling of how it was played, and I was pretty descent at it but still, I was just our team’s twelfth man and could relax with the others on the sideline to begin with.  
Sherlock gracefully reclined in a wicker chair under a parasol with a book in his hands while Mycroft sat beside him watching the field but also shooting poisonous looks his brother’s way.  
“Can’t you at least put the book away, it’s rude and distracting.”  
“I’m not bothering anyone; the players are focused on the game, as are the other spectators. It’s hardly my fault if you feel the need to distract yourself by observing me read. “  
“You don’t bring a book to an event like this, you watch the game like everyone else and show the players out there some respect. If it’s not too bothersome for you?”  
“It is,” Sherlock quipped but put the book away and let his gaze turn to the players instead.  
I followed his look and saw Victor Trevor, the captain of the village team consisting of locals, enter and talk to his fellow players before he turned his head and met Sherlocks eyes. The lingering look lasted a little too long and Mycroft turned his head so his eyes could bore in to Mr Trevor with obvious disapproval.  
“The nerve of that man, staring like a fool at you. He should know his place. As should you, Sherlock. No need to encourage the man further.”  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mycroft. I’m just watching the game as you told me to do. Honestly, is there ever any pleasing some people?”  
The last words were directed towards me and he gave me quick wink with his eye before turning his attention once more to the field where the game was just about to get started now that all the players had arrived.  
Mike and I sat next to each other on the grass. I was in player’s uniform but didn’t really expect to be put to good use. I caught Victor Trevor looking at me once but ignored him. I hadn’t been able to deliver any more letters, and no one had made the suggestion either, but I could see the question hanging in the air between us. Sherlock hadn’t raised the issue with me yet, but he didn’t seem to harbor any ill feelings towards me either. He was back to his normal aloof ways of walking through life, trying to stay clear of both Mycroft and Magnussen, reading books in the hammock and once again discussing crime cases with Gregory. It was as if time had been brought back to the beginning of summer and Victor Trevor never played a part in our lives.  
Magnussen, as our team’s captain, marched out to the middle and waited for Victor Trevor to approach him and shake his hand before the game could begin. I dared a glance in Sherlock’s direction but nothing in his features indicated that he recognized the significance of the scene. As I was about to turn my attention back to the players I caught Mycroft’s penetrating gaze directed at me. He lifted his eyebrows in a questioning manner when he saw me watching him and I quickly looked away.   
“John! Come here!”  
Mr Magnussen gestured for me to come over and I reluctantly got to my feet. He looked very different from how I was used to seeing him. Clad in the white uniform of course, thin and tall, with his scar more on display today because of the absence of his spectacles. His skeletal features made him look more like a predator than ever and standing in front of Victor Trevor with his muscled body and more youthful appearance the contrast was spectacular. Magnussen was a man in his late 40: ies and Trevor around 25, their differences were as big as when you put Mycroft and Sherlock next to each other, although the age difference between the brothers were only seven years. They were total opposites.  
“This is our twelfth man, John Watson,” Magnussen introduced me.  
“Yes, I believe we have met. He got into an accident on the farm the other week and hurt his knee rather badly. I hope you’re feeling better now, master Watson?”  
I froze. I couldn’t remember having told anyone but Sherlock about the injury. Magnussen had seen it that day by the fountain, when he had sent me searching for Sherlock to join him in a game of croquet, but he never did ask how I got the wound in the first place. And yet his reply to Trevor indicated that he was fully informed. Maybe Sherlock had told him?  
“Yes, I heard. He’s very good at sneaking around undetected, among other gifts. Personally, I call him Hermes, he’s a true master at delivering messages. You should employ him sometime.”  
If Trevor was faced by the hidden meaning of the words he didn’t show it, just nodded sharply.  
“I’m sure he’s skilled at many things. Very mature for his age, I would say.”  
With that he nodded once again in our direction and withdrew, back to his waiting team members. Magnussen watched him retreat and then shooed me of the play field.   
Sherlock cast me a glance as I sat down next to Mike but said nothing and the game began.  
Mike and I, as well as most other men in the audience, except for Sherlock and Mycroft, were really invested in the game, while the rest of the audience clapped politely but spent the rest of the time talking about other things. Anthea and Mrs. Vernet for example, were having a discussion about a scandal in the London society that was taking place this summer and involved several politicians and an actress at The Haymarket.   
“He’s very good at playing cricket, Mr Magnussen,” Mike said to me,” I think he played it while he lived in the colonies. My father participated in a game in Bombay last year. Not against the locals of course, but still, it’s nice how you can bring the British way with you to every part of the world.”  
I wasn’t that interested in talking about Magnussen in per se, so I just nodded and followed the game.  
“I’ve been to this annual game a couple of times. It’s nothing like a real game, with actual players, but it is a way of keeping the villagers happy and satisfied. They aren’t allowed to win of course, that would be truly humiliating. But I don’t remember ever witnessing that happening anyway, so I’m not terribly worried. Although, that Trevor fellow seems rather good. “  
I observed him and Magnussen battling it out in the field, without ever really coming into contact with each other. At one moment, Trevor let himself get distracted, looking Sherlocks way and lost his concentration, but otherwise, he was skilled in the game and the score was pretty evenly played.   
When a pause in the game came everyone in the audience got up and walked towards the club house where refreshments were being served.  
“Sherlock, would you mind bringing a glass for Charles? He must be thirsty after playing in this heat,” Mycroft asked his brother.   
Sherlock glowered at him but went anyway, probably glad for the opportunity to stretch his long legs. He swept by Victor Trevor who was standing against one of the pillars surrounding the club house, so close they could have touched. For a second, I thought they were going to exchange words, but Sherlock just kept going and Trevor shot him a lingering look. From the opposite side I saw Charles Magnussen approaching, set on reaching Sherlock it seemed. He was greeted by a glass pushed into his hand somewhat sulkily. I could see Magnussen leaning forward and whispering something in Sherlock’s ear, but all he got in return was a nonchalant shrug before Sherlock turned his back on both Magnussen and Trevor, moving in the direction of a stand further away, selling toffee and other local sweets.   
As he returned to his seat he tossed a small paper bag in Mycroft’s lap.  
“Here., I got you something to chew on while trying to keep your eyes open. This game seems to be taking forever.”  
Mycroft looked genuinely surprised, a look I hadn’t really seen on him before. He usually was a man in full control of both his features and his emotions.  
“Thank you,” he mumbled as he peeked inside the small bag,” How very kind of you, dear brother.”  
“Oh, it’s for purely selfish reasons. You always seem to be in a better mood when treated to something sugary. As we are going to sit this whole game out, I thought it better to butter you up beforehand than to suffer the consequences of your hunger later on. “  
Mycroft snorted with pretended offensiveness but seemed secretly pleased. He shot his brother a look verging on fondness. It made me think that they must have been close once. Maybe as children, when life hadn’t yet served out any terrible punches their way. It seemed as if their parent’s misfortune had hit Mycroft the hardest and that he was suffering more from the effects of those circumstances. Perhaps that was what now had caused the rift between them, their different ways of coping under the new conditions. I wondered, if Magnussen had been interested in Mycroft instead, would he have been as eager to accept that proposal as he was expecting Sherlock to do?  
As the game continued and the heat became even more unbearable with every passing quarter, the audience started to become restless. Sherlock fidgeted with his book, sighed, looked at the game and sighed again before throwing himself back in the wicker chair. Mycroft watched him with half lidded eyes, ate some toffee but seemed just as bored.   
At one moment Victor Trevor outdid himself with a particularly good strike and the villagers in the audience cheered, the rest of us clapping our hands more politely. Sherlock’s attention rose in that moment and a small smile played on his lips out of proudness, no doubt. I couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy at the sight of it but didn’t let it show on my face.   
“He’s very good, isn’t he?” I asked, and Sherlock nodded and clapped his hands. Mycroft stiffened in his seat, scowling at his brother’s open admiration for the opposing team but said nothing and I could see Magnussen watching Sherlock too from his position, frowningly.   
Mike gave me a steely look. It was obvious that you had to be loyal to your own team and not applaud the opposers, even when doing something out of the ordinary.   
“You’re not rooting for them, are you? That Trevor, he’s just full of himself. Don’t give him any reason to get a bigger head than he already has,” he hissed.  
Beyond that, nothing really happened, and the game continued for what felt like an eternity, even for us who actually enjoyed the game to some extent.  
I was fully prepared to appreciate everything as a spectator and feeling quite content with that, when one of our team members suddenly stumbled and damaged his ankle.  
“You’re up,” Mike shouted enthusiastically and even Sherlock perked up a bit from his slumping position in the wicker chair.   
I rose and went out to the field. Magnussen came up to me and pointed to where he wanted me to stay.  
“You won’t have much to do, nothing usually happens where you’re staying. But sometimes the ball can come your way, so be prepared. We don’t want to lose to this lot. They will become insufferable if they win.”  
I nodded and jogged over to my place. Very correctly nothing happened for a good while as far as I was concerned but I kept my attention on the game the whole time, prepared if something should come my way.   
And suddenly it did.   
It was Victor Trevor of course that caused it. The bowler made his throw, Victor connecting his bat to the ball with full force, sending it flying high right towards me. As I threw myself after it, hoping to catch it, it felt as if watching the whole scene from the outside, like a spectator. I could see Victor’s eyes growing in amazement, Sherlock standing up from his chair, Mycroft turning his full attention on me, Mike cheering and Magnussen’s lips depart in a wolfish grin. I felt the ball land in my hand before my brain fully registered what I had done. The cheers from the audience as well as my team mates finally made me come in to full awareness again. People came up to me, patted me on the head or the shoulder, Magnussen shook my hand enthusiastically. Finally, Trevor came, and I looked at him a little embarrassed.  
“Sorry,” I mumbled, but not really feeling it.  
“That was an amazing catch, lad. No need to apologize for having talent.”  
I gave him a grateful smile, and, in that moment, I actually liked him. Not a lot, but still. I embraced the compliment, because it felt heartfelt.  
Magnussen’s team ended up winning eventually and everyone withdrew to the big barn further down the road, serving as our locale for the evening’s festivities.   
The people from Donnithorpe had a big table in the middle and I was seated next to Mike, opposite Sherlock who was flanked by Mycroft and Magnussen on either side of him. Gregory had found his place next to Anthea and looked comfortable sitting closely, much to the dismay of Philip who ended up between Mr and Mrs Vernet.   
Beer and cider was being served as well as sandwiches, the atmosphere was happy and loud and people from both sides of society mingled politely with each other. It was all a farce of course, Mike couldn’t stop whispering nasty comments about the villagers and they, no doubt, talked about us in return, but all and all it was a nice evening.   
As dusk settled outside and people grew merrier, requests for entertainment came up. One of the villagers, named Wallace, held up his brother’s fiddle. The brother himself was in no state to play, slumping over his glass of beer and half out of it, so the question was shouted out, asking for a volunteer to play something on it. I didn’t know if this was how it usually came about or if Sherlock normally brought his own violin, but heads were automatically turned in his direction and Mycroft immediately seized the moment.   
“Sherlock can play “the fiddle” as you put it.”  
Mycroft nodded toward his brother who, after a second’s hesitation, rose and walked towards the music stand. Wallace handed him the fiddle and the bow, strangely reluctant, as if the instrument somehow didn’t belong in the hands of someone from the grand household, as if it ought to be played by someone else, one of their own.   
Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it although he most certainly saw the hesitation, he just took the fiddle and the bow, weighed them in his hands before he rose it to his chin and accommodated the instrument comfortably to his liking.   
I never saw anyone look so determined and yet so lost at the same time. He wasn’t out of his element, he knew how to play, I had heard him several times during the summer, but he almost never played in front of other people and most certainly would never choose to do so in front of this particular crowd where Victor Trevor was standing against a pillar on one side of the barn and Charles Magnussen was seated with Mycroft and the others on the opposite side, both men with their eyes on Sherlock, in awe, expectant and with something inkling to obsessive possessiveness in their eyes. I felt a shiver down my spine when I saw them, it felt sickly and somehow their feelings, as well as Sherlock’s discomfort sent riptides through the atmosphere. Even Mycroft seemed to sense it but played along, ignoring the tension between the three, he just made a determined nod with his head towards Sherlock, willing him to start playing, an insincere smile plastered to his face, more like a grimace than an actual smile.   
“We ought to have someone singing too!”  
It was Marsden, obviously boldened by drink already. He was one of the foot men, not from the old crowd, not yet cowed by conventions and rules. Mike hade told me he had joined the staff at the beginning of summer and probably wouldn’t last the winter if he didn’t soften his edges and adapted to the rest of the household. A free spirit and also one who had survived the war, returned home but found it impossible to adapt to a world that had changed while he was gone. Yet he was young, he could learn again, Mr Magnussen seemed to like having people around him that reminded him of the time they had all shared in a different country, in a different time, not this frivolous existence where the only things that mattered were petty conventions and social behavior. The lazy life of the British upper class, with white muslin clothes, summer breezes and endless cups of tea and lemonade in the garden with nothing to do but stroll in the maze and smell the flowers in absurdum. No wonder Sherlock found it all appallingly boring, no wonder he sought his pleasures elsewhere.   
Marsden could have been ignored, probably should have been, if the barn wasn’t so crowded with people standing on different sides of a class barrier. The rich didn’t want to stand out as being pompous and stiff, not the younger ones anyway, and the crowd, with Philip och Gregory in tow nodded in agreement and cheered at Marsden’s suggestion while Mycroft’s smile froze and then withered. You could see he hated being here, it was just something they all had to endure to keep the locals in check, happy and satisfied. A game of pretend that they were all equals, as if they didn’t all go their separate ways by nightfall, the privileged up to the ancestral estate and the rest down to their small cottages in the village.   
It was Marsden of course who was bound to be the one driving the game even further by suggesting Victor to join Sherlock up on the stage. Victor was their team captain, their own shining star among their lot, the one standing out in a crowd of peasants and lowly people. He was supposedly from the area originally, born and raised, returning as a lodger three years ago to the villager’s delight, as he immediately replaced their former team captain who never was any good to begin with. You could sense that Victor was a very liked man among the locals.  
I could se Mycroft stiffen in his seat at the suggestion of Victor and Mr Magnussen exchanged glances with him, but Marsden had already pushed Victor forward, despite his protestations of not being a good singer.  
“Come on, Trevor!“  
“Just get up there, be a good sport!”  
Victor stumbled up to the stage next to Sherlock who didn’t acknowledge him with as much as a look, he just stood there with the fiddle to his chin, waiting for someone to tell him what to do so he could do it as quickly as possible and be done with it. He looked more stoic than insecure now, like he had braced himself in front of a herculean task that just needed to be done.  
When Victor just stood there, as if frozen to the spot and unable to do anything at all Sherlock finally took some control of the situation and whispered to him.  
“What do you want to sing?”  
Victor startled to life at the sound of his voice and turned towards him. He looked straight at Sherlock who still refused to meet his eyes and then he spoke, determined, with a tone of longing in his voice.  
“My love is like a red red rose. Do you know it?”  
“I do.”  
If Sherlock felt something by Victor’s choice of song, he didn’t show it, he just gracefully raised the bow to the instrument and the first note of the song vibrated through the barn, as yearning and emotional as the words that Victor sang a second after.   
His voice wasn’t particularly beautiful, the melody was sometimes out of tune with the one Sherlock produced on the fiddle and he couldn’t hit any high notes at all, but the sentiment behind the words were evident to everyone present.   
Oh my love is like a red, red rose  
That newly sprung in june  
Oh my love’s like the melody  
That’s sweetly playe’d in tune  
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear  
And the rocks melt with the sun  
And I will love thee still, my dear  
While the sand o’life shall run  
When the song was over everyone except Mycroft applauded enthusiastically and as Victor and Sherlock faced each other and bowed, someone yelled:  
“Don’t the look a lovely couple?”  
Mr Magnussen turned his icy stare to the crowd and searched for the one who had shouted that sentence among the enthusiastic faces, as Victor descended the stage while Sherlock remained standing, waiting for the next victim to step forward. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t let him off the hook after just one song. We all knew it, Sherlock was that beautiful, precious member of the family, Mycroft’s only weakness, the one he felt proud to show off, most of all to people like Magnussen who devoured Sherlock with his eyes as soon as he got the opportunity. I remembered Mike’s word a couple of days ago:  
“Mycroft’s biggest wish is to marry Sherlock off to someone who can reign him in, someone with wealth and influence. Mr Magnussen is precisely that person, Mycroft has been trying to merge them together for a while now. “  
Lost in my own thoughts I jumped a little as a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I turned my head and looked up at Mr Magnussen’s blank face.   
“What do you say, John? Would you do us the honor and sing something for us? Only fair that someone from the winning team get up on that stage and show everyone how it’s done?”  
It was said tongue in cheek but still loud enough to be heard by Victor who was passing behind our back at that moment. He didn’t acknowledge the slight, just kept on moving through the crowd, toward the back towards the table of beverages and sandwiches.   
I didn’t really feel like getting up there and sing in front of everyone, even if I would share the stage with Sherlock, but just as I felt compelled to say yes to everything that people here asked of me, out of some sort of gratitude for being given the privilege of staying at this beautiful estate, getting new clothes from a real tailor, sitting at their fancy table, eating the most wonderful food, I said yes to this also. I never said yes to as many things as I did that summer, never before and certainly not after, but I felt grateful and chosen and it mostly didn’t feel like a chore to accept whatever they wanted me to do.  
Sherlock greeted me much warmer than he had when Victor had shared the stage with him. He bent down to ask me what I wanted to sing and put his hand gently on my shoulder. I could feel my cheeks heating by the proximity I felt to him, I could feel a small waft of the scent that was him, mixed with the smell of grass, hay and nicotine. A lock of his hair fell down on his forehead and dangled between the eyebrows, suggestively, like it was meant to happen. It wasn’t of course, his hair always did things like that, those curls swaying unruly in the breeze, curling up even more when he was sweating or lying like a plastered cap along his skull when he took a swim in the river.   
He looked a bit like that bust of lord Byron that was presiding in the library, indecent and romantic and totally adventurous with its marble curls and plush lips, heavy eyelids och haughty expression. I remember wondering about it when I first saw it, it didn’t seem like something anyone in the household would deem suitable to decorate even a literate place like a library with, certainly not Mycroft It was Sherlock’s, Mike told me. He had acquired the bust somewhere, no one really knew from where, and insisting on it being on display. Evidentially Mycroft had succumbed to his wishes, even if the notion was hard to grasp. Even if Mycroft to some degree doted on his younger brother he was also a master of decorum och appropriate taste and he was no stranger to keeping Sherlock on a short leash when the situation demanded it. The bust was the only thing in the household that was procured by Sherlock, everything else was after their parent’s taste and fancy.   
I broke my staring of the lock of hair when he pushed it back up and I mumbled, slightly embarrassed, that I only knew one song by heart, a hymn that we had sung at Bramblefield, during mass. Angels ever bright and fair. It didn’t seem appropriate to sing it here, in a barn, after a cricket match, among a group of people so different from not just each other but also from me and my background, that I started to regret that I so readily had accepted to sing something for them.   
But Sherlock just smiled a crooked smile and nodded.  
“It’s alright, I know it. From school, yes? We used to sing it too, where I went. Seems like all schools share a proficiency for choosing hymns about angels, compulsory fair and bright of course. Maybe they hope it will rub off on the pupils somehow.”  
His words made me feel at ease and when he started playing the first notes it felt encouraging and I surprised even myself by joining in with a voice both strong and crystal clear.  
I could see people in the audience, including Victor Trevor och Mycroft, but also a lot of the others watch me in amazement, clearly not expecting me to be able to deliver such a beautiful song with full justice to the melody and lyrics. Mr Magnussen smiled a bit smugly, probably happy that this performance totally overshadowed the one Victor had delivered minutes before. I couldn’t help but agree with that smugness.  
Beside me Sherlock swayed to the music as he played, as transfixed by my voice as the others were and I saw Mycroft look somewhat disapprovingly at him, clearly not liking this blatant show of emotion in public, but he said nothing, and the song eventually came to an end.   
“Well, you sure blew everyone away with that performance. I seldom think anyone can surpass me musically, as you well can imagine out here in the middle of nowhere, but that voice was in a league of its own,” Sherlock whispered with a smile as we both faced the audience and took a bow.  
As we stood there, up on the small, homemade stage inside the barn and let the applause shower over us I saw Magnussen leaning over towards Mycroft and whisper something to him. They both turned their eyes toward Sherlock and Mycroft nodded as Mr Magnussen kept talking.   
On the walk home Mike ran up to me and punched me friendly on the shoulder.  
“Well you looked pleased with yourself up there, with Sherlock, on the stage.”  
I laughed and shook my head, a bit embarrassed but indeed very pleased.   
“God thing too. Your performance making everyone forget that cringeworthy act by Trevor. I felt repulsed just seeing him up on that stage, trying to stand too close to Sherlock and belting out whatever nonsense he called a song.”  
“It was Robert Burns…”  
“I don’t care who he nicked it from, it gave me goosebumps. My love is like a red red rose? What a laugh! Sounds like something you would read in one of those penny dreadful novels. But about cheap romance instead of horror.”  
I chuckled because maybe he was right, I didn’t know much about it, not having read that many cheap novels about neither love and romance or horror for that matter.   
“Sherlock loves those by the way. The horror ones I mean. Mycroft doesn’t like him reading them, but he does anyway, I’ve seen it myself. He loves sitting cooped up somewhere and read about murders and crimes in the city, sometimes he reads the stories with Gregory, I think they share an interest in those sorts of things. I don’t understand it myself, they all just seem so gory and terrible to me and like I said, Mycroft doesn’t like it at all. I’m sure Mr Magnussen feels the same way.”  
Mike hesitated and looked around for a second as if to make sure that no one was listening to what we were talking about, then he leant closer and lowered his voice.  
“Can you keep a secret?”  
“Sure,” I nodded.  
“I heard Mycroft talking. Sherlock is to be engaged to Magnussen. It’s going to be announced next week. “  
I felt as if someone had punched me right in the solar plexus. I wasn’t prepared for this, despite the fact that Mike had told me Charles Magnussen harbored feelings for Sherlock and that Mycroft wished for a union between them to be made. I had seen plenty of signs but somehow thought of it as a game, not as something that could actually happen.   
Sherlock hade never shown any sort of interest in the man and I, in my naivety, thought that nothing would come of it. Even as I, as three years younger than Sherlock and still considered a child in the eyes of everyone else, maybe understood, even if I wished it to be different, that I myself would never have a chance with this gorgeous creature that was Sherlock Holmes, I still thought that also meant the same for everybody else. Sherlock was not someone to be had, a person to be married to anyone. He was forever to run free, turn his face over the shoulder and wink at his admirers but never settle down, always be just out of reach. It made me endure my unrequited love for him, the thought that no one else would have him either, he was to be worshipped from afar. Even this thing with Victor Trevor was a fleeting thing, surely? A way of passing the time? Maybe not to Trevor but to Sherlock, for sure.  
The idea that Charles Magnussen was now going to get Sherlock, claim him and bind him to himself was nauseating. I felt sick just thinking about it and something must have shown upon my face even if I tried my best to hide it, because Mike frowned and looked at me closely with suspicion in his eyes.  
“Aren’t you glad? It’s a good match. Magnussen is one of the wealthiest in the country and even if he is part foreigner, he is a gentleman. There is no one more suitable than him, that’s what Mycroft says, and he would know. He would never give his brother up to just anyone, it must be the perfect connection for him to even consider it.”  
“Of course, I’m glad, I managed to croak out, trying to put as much polite nonchalance as I could muster in to the sentence. “  
Mike was one of the few that didn’t really see what I felt for Sherlock, him being bedridden most of the time and therefore not being able to experience the closeness that had developed between us. I’m sure most of the household, especially Mycroft but also outsiders like Victor Trevor and Magnussen saw my hidden feelings clear as a day, I was too young to know how to hide my feelings properly and even Sherlock himself probably had some inkling, even if he never said anything about it.   
That I would develop a crush on Sherlock Holmes probably never even crossed his mind.  
He nodded, pleased with my answer and then changed the subject, content in his ignorance of the turmoil of feelings I felt inside my as we turned on to the path leading up to the manor.


	9. Turning of the screw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation intensifies for everyone and John finds out the hard way what pressure does to people.

I didn’t see Sherlock for the rest of the evening and not the next morning either. I thought I heard a violin playing during the night but that could have easily been my imagination playing tricks on me after the musical experience earlier.  
Mycroft was very stern-looking and grim during breakfast. He didn’t say much and looked as if he hadn’t slept very well. It didn’t match up to what would be expected of him to look like now that his brother’s engagement was about to be announced. Of course, not everyone at the table knew of the news yet and Mycroft was famous for his buttoned-up personality so no one asked if something was the matter and no one asked where Sherlock was either.  
During the afternoon, while Mike decided to play croquet on the front lawn with Gregory, Philip and Mr Vernet, I wandered about the house looking for Sherlock, when I stumbled upon Magnussen in the library. He was smoking a cigarette and stood in front of the bust of Byron, looking as if he was examining it mentally. When he heard me come in, his eyes peered at me over the rim of his glasses and a small smile came over his lips. He forwarded his hand and let the fingertips touch the crown of hair on the bust, letting them slide ever so slightly over the marble.  
“It’s a bit like looking at the real person, isn’t it? Do you think that’s why he chose it? For the resemblance?”  
Although he didn’t mention Sherlock by name it was understood of whom he was referring to.  
“The resemblance to himself? I don’t think even Sherlock would be that conceited.”  
“Oh, but it isn’t Sherlock who bought this. It was a gift from someone he knew at a school. Before he got expelled.”  
My eyebrows rose. Oh. Magnussen had somehow found out about that? Sherlock’s supposedly scandalous behavior before being kicked out. I hadn’t had the chance to ask Mike about it yet but I was very curious as to what he had actually done and who this James Moriarty was.  
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about that,” I answered.  
Magnussen gave me a scrutinizing look but then determined that I was telling the truth and nodded.  
“No. Why should you? Suffice to say that he was a very naughty boy back then.”  
I shrugged my shoulders, unsure of what more I could say and was about to leave when he beckoned me in instead.  
“Won’t you join me for a little while? Everyone else are busy at the moment and I’m feeling a bit lonely. You and I get along fine, don’t we, John? We understand each other. Share the same…interest?”  
I nodded although I didn’t feel we quite shared the connection he was alluding to.  
I liked the man well enough although he repulsed me a bit with his shark like eyes and sweaty handshake. The thought of his wet touch upon Sherlock’s delicate skin was stomach-turning, but he was always polite and kind to me, not like Mycroft who genuinely didn’t like me at all and had some difficulty hiding his aversion too.  
Mycroft always made me feel like an interloper, someone who didn’t belong in their fancy circle, a person who also had the audacity to monopolize not only Mike but also Sherlock and to some extent the others too. But especially Sherlock. I always felt Mycroft’s disapproving eyes follow me through the window when Sherlock and I walked inside the maze or sat by the fountain, talking.  
I don’t know if Sherlock primarily liked me because I was the go-between he and Victor used to communicate. Now that I knew what the notes they sent each other contained I understood I was being used, but I was so smitten with Sherlock that I would have done just about anything that he asked me to do and maybe that was what Mycroft resented about me, my willingness to do anything for his brother, even things that weren’t respectable. I hid behind my age and felt that if Mycroft was ever to ask me about my relationship with Sherlock I would give him the clueless version of an adolescent. Sherlock may be just 17 and quite young himself but he was still considered to be the responsible one if anything of what I was doing for him and Victor ever came to light. Although I sincerely hoped that would never happen, especially now that Sherlock was about to marry Charles Magnussen. There would be no more room for Victor Trevor and his lovesick notes in Sherlock’s life.  
Magnussen looked pleased when I entered the living room and came up to him, standing by the other side of the bust.  
“Do you know this house is actually mine?” He asked suddenly och took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette.  
I nodded because I had heard nothing else from several sources, including Mike and Mycroft.  
“Ah, you’ve been told? I’m surprised. I always believed Mycroft tried to keep the illusion of it still being his ancestral home, especially in front of outsiders. The close circle all know of course, but why tell someone who is just visiting for a couple of weeks?”  
He scrutinized me with his eyes and the smile widened marginally. He looked for a second like a predator, ready to ensnare his victim, but it passed as quickly as it came, and the remaining smile was more benign, if not wholly sincere.  
“Ah, of course, your little friend, he’s the one who told you. But Mycroft knows that you know of course. That’s partly why he resents you. He does so like to pretend that he’s still a descendant of the glory days, when the Holmes family actually were the real owners. He’s old enough to remember it of course and proud enough to long for those days. Sherlock was too young when they fell out of fortune, the lived poorly in this house for many years before the parents died and besides, he isn’t the sort of person who cares about heritage and ancestry. That’s what’s so refreshing about him, I feel quite the same.”  
When I failed to comment he just continued, more like a monolog with himself than a dialog with me.  
“I have an ancestral home of my own, you know. In Denmark. That’s why I don’t care what they choose to decorate this house with, this bust of Lord Byron and the stuffy family portraits in the hall upstairs for example, I don’t mind. I have my own collection back home.”  
“Do you have a title?” I asked politely. I was curious about this man, but at the same time it felt like treading on unsafe territory talking to him, like you could suddenly begin to sink if stepping in the wrong direction. If even a person like Mycroft Holmes bended to this man’s will, he certainly had enormous power.  
“Of course. I wouldn’t be accepted by this circle, despite my wealth, if I didn’t have something more substantial to my name. I’m a count, but I don’t really use my title, I have no use of it. I’m content with being Mr Charles Augustus Magnussen. Mr Magnussen to you.”  
He stopped and took a final drag of his cigarette before moving over to the window where he simply put out the cigarette against the windowsill. It left an ugly black mark, but I didn’t dare say anything about it of course. Instead I pretended to be absorbed by the bust, walked around it so I stood facing it, like he had done a second ago. I had seen it before, admired it, asked Mike about it and even rummaged the shelves in the library for any books by Byron in case Sherlock had a specific liking to his poems. Turned out that he didn’t.  
“Do you have any interesting ancestors?” I asked when I couldn’t cope with the cold eyes of my companion, looking at me through his spectacles.  
With the sun shining in from behind him, his face lay in the shadows and the disfiguring scar on his cheek wasn’t as noticeable and yet his appearance still made me uncomfortable. He wasn’t downright ugly, I had seen plenty worse back home, but he wasn’t pleasant looking either, he had an air of something off-putting about him and the thinning hair, the skeletal facial features and the cold look behind the steel rimmed glasses sent alarm bells chiming when I looked at him, even if he had never done or said anything to justify my feelings.  
He chuckled lightly at my question.  
“Not really, a bunch of dullards the lot of them. Number two roasted a kitchen boy on a spit over the fire once, but that was over 200 years ago and number seven died in a duel before he managed to inherit his title, but that’s about it. Not much drama to talk about. I’m sure the Holmes family have more exciting skeletons in their closet. You must ask Mycroft about it sometime.”  
“A duel sounds rather dramatic.”  
“He was defending his honor. It was how people sorted their differences back then, but nothing dramatic really. He thought his wife was too friendly with another man and challenged him to a duel. The other man shot him.”  
I looked at him and saw the smile still linger upon his features.  
“It should have been the other way around,” I ventured.  
“Yes, he was rather unlucky. The other man was a very good shot. “  
“I feel kind of sorry for him. Your ancestor I mean. He probably didn’t think he was going to die.”  
“Well yes. He just wanted to restore his disgraced name and win back his wife. They did those kinds of things back then, took pride in their possessions, tried hard to protect them. It’s honorable in a way. Almost makes you wish that sense of principle still existed in this modern world. In some places it still does.”  
He sounded like he talked about something that didn’t really have anything to do with him, just an anecdote to a curious boy who had the kindness to keep him company for a little while, yet there was an undercurrent of steel to his words and it made me think of Sherlock and Victor Trevor and the thought sent a shudder down my spine. Even if I didn’t particularly like Victor Trevor I didn’t want to see him shot by a jealous Charles Magnussen in a duel. More importantly I never wanted Sherlock to come to any harm.  
“Would it have mattered to him if he hadn’t been married to the woman? If they had just been engaged?”  
“No. I don’t think that detail would have made a difference. When one feels connected to someone, it doesn’t really matter if you’re engaged or married, some people just belong together and anyone coming between them is seen as a threat, wouldn’t you say? It’s common. People are possessive about their properties, always have been. “  
“But a person is not a property.”  
“True. And yet, many people feel that way. They have invested something in the relationship with another person, they like to feel they’re promised something in return, a commitment. It’s a sort of ownership in the end.”  
I let that thought simmer in my mind. It was true to some extent. Mycroft felt his family bond with Sherlock meant that his brother was obligated to help them out of their financial situation by any means necessary, Magnussen probably felt that his willingness to help Mycroft meant that he had a right to claim Sherlock and so forth. It was disheartening to think how cynical this way of thinking really was. 

As I left Mr Magnussen behind in the library five minutes later I heard voices drifting through the corridor. They belonged to Mycroft and Sherlock and were really agitated and unusually loud.  
I had never before heard Mycroft raise his voice but now he was practically shouting. I didn’t dare turn the corner and risk being seen so I stayed on the other side and tried to listen in. It wasn’t difficult because both were very angry and didn’t bother hiding their words.  
“You promised not to rush things with the engagement, you said we could wait until the end of summer before making a decision!”  
“Charles’s been very patient you know, but he’s beginning to lose his tolerance with your dallying and we can’t afford to lose his interest also! Why does it matter if we announce it now instead of in a couple of weeks? It doesn’t make a difference, you’re still marrying him!”  
“According to you I am! Nobody asked me what I want with my own life.”  
“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. You can’t find a better suitor than Charles Magnussen.”  
“You mean, you can’t! Why don’t you just marry him instead? You’re more around the marrying age anyhow, I’m still too young, I haven’t even had the time to live properly yet!”  
“Stop talking nonsense, we’re not going through this again. You’re 17, if you get engaged now, 18 is the perfect age to get married. “  
“As you have passed that age quite some time ago, where does that leave you then?”  
“Older and wiser and determined to not let my brother continue ruining it for this family. We’re forced to live like renters in our own home, that’s not how I envisioned this life to be. It’s not what we deserve. If you marry Charles this house will be in our family again. “  
“So you care more about a stupid old house than your own brother’s happiness?”  
“Now you’re just being deliberately obtuse, I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior from you. Do you really expect me to see you flounder about without purpose in life, squandering your prime years on playing the violin, reading crime novels and dreaming of becoming a detective? Absurd! Just as I have had to adapt to our new existence, so are you expected to. You’re the key to our way out of this wretched mess our parents put us in, are you really saying you won’t play your part because you would rather waste your time dallying with…”  
“With?”  
There was a pause and I leaned forward a bit, unable to stop listening for what would come next.  
“Your other interests.” Mycroft finally finished.  
“So I’m not allowed to have any say in my own life?”  
“I’m marrying you off, Sherlock. Not sending you to prison. I don’t understand what you’re really objecting to? The wealth? This house that will now be yours? A husband who clearly adores you? You didn’t even have to do anything to catch his attention, like most people looking for a spouse needs to do. One look was all it took, and he is accepting you just as you are, which, looking at your appalling behavior right now is quite a feat! “  
“But I’m not looking for a spouse! That’s the problem!”  
I heard a rustle of fabric and some steps approaching followed by Mycroft’s furious voice calling out after his brother.  
“Don’t you dare turn your back at me! Come back here this instant, we’re not finished with this conversation!”  
Scared that I was going to end up face to face with Sherlock who was approaching swiftly and immediately would understand that I had been listening in, I turned around and ran down the stairs and continued out the door to the front lawn where Mike and the others were just finishing up their game. I stilled my steps and went up to them as if languidly strolling by but inside me my heart was pounding with a dreadful realization. Mycroft was going to marry off Sherlock despite his own wishes and that thought made me want to revolt, both for the sake of the reluctant Sherlock but also for my own poor heart that felt like it was shattering into tiny little pieces.  
I saw Sherlock pounding down the stairs and turn on the gravel to the left, toward the maze. I wished that I could have followed him, but Mike had already spotted me and waved me over.  
“There you are! Fancy going for a swim, I’m dying in this heat!”  
I nodded and joined him inside again to go get our swimwear. In the hall we bumped into Mycroft, probably searching for Sherlock. His face looked red with anger and he didn’t bother acknowledging us as he stormed out through the door.  
On the way back from the river we ran in to a travelling man selling birds in small wooden cages. He was trespassing of course and looked very filthy, tired and worn. The birds he had were small and looked like sparrows painted in colorful nuances to look more exotic and Mike immediately got in to an argument with the man when he claimed the birds were from Australia and very rare species. Soon another man appeared, one of the local farmers from the village and he told me to run up to the house so someone with authority cold come and order the man to leave the property. The bird seller looked very sad and worn down and gave me an imploring look but said nothing as I turned my back on him and started to sprint off toward the house.  
“Fetch Mycroft!” I heard Mike call after me, probably forgetting that Magnussen was the real owner of the property now.  
As I approached the front of the house I saw no one and just kept running, in to the house, searching for anyone who could be of assistant. Finally, I ran in to Mr Vernet in a corridor, who immediately left to go look for Magnussen or Mycroft. I was leaning against the wall, still trying to catch my breath after my sprint when I heard a door open further down the corridor and the sound of swift footsteps approaching. It was Sherlock coming at me at full speed, all but running toward me, a letter in his hand.  
“Please, John, I need you help. Can you bring this letter to Armitage farm for me? Urgently, before Mycroft sees you.”  
I hesitated, thinking of Mycroft’s anger, Magnussen’s story about his dueling ancestor and the danger Sherlock was putting himself and Victor Trevor in if they kept this up. It couldn’t go on.  
“No, I’m not sure I can do that anymore.” I replied nervously.  
“Why not? Mike’s not here right now, you could easily…”  
“It’s not that,” I interrupted him.  
“Then was is it?”  
He looked confused now. I had never really denied him anything before. It was new for both of us.  
“It’s Mr Magnussen. I don’t think he would like it.” I tried to explain.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, for the first time looking displeased when viewing me.  
“What’s he got to do with it?”  
I couldn’t say that I had heard him arguing with Mycroft earlier today, that I knew that he was going to get engaged to Magnussen. I wasn’t supposed to know anything. I wasn’t even supposed to know what was in the letters Sherlock and Victor sent to each other, the only one I had told that to was Victor and they hadn’t had the time to talk about that, of that I was sure. As far as Sherlock was concerned I didn’t know anything about the nature of his business with Victor Trevor nor Magnussen’s intentions.  
But despite not saying a word it was suddenly as realization dawned on him just by looking in to my eyes. His own eyes widened marginally, and he drew in a small breath before puling himself together once more, choosing not to address this sudden comprehension. Instead his features grew hard.  
“It’s just a business matter between Mr Trevor and myself. Nothing that concerns Charles. Or anybody else for that matter. I thought I could count on your help with this, John. Considering going to such great lengths to help you with your new clothes and your secret about your poor upbringing. I haven’t told anyone about that you know. Because I promised you that I wouldn’t. But when I ask you to do this one little chore that means very much to me you can’t be bothered? Because of Mr Magnussen? Since when do you care about him? You don’t even know him! You’re just a guest here who gets to leave when the holiday is over.”  
As he spoke he had managed to work himself up to an agitated state, his voice becoming louder, and anger mixed with despair flashing in his eyes. He reminded me of a hunted animal in that moment, cornered, with no way of escaping destiny.  
I pitied him, but I felt anger as well. Why was he bringing me in to all of this? Didn’t he think of the consequences for himself, for Victor Trevor, even for me, if this came out in the open?  
But instead of shouting back as I usually did when angered I just snatched the letter from his hand, pushed him out of my way and ran.  
I didn’t run immediately to Armitage farm, instead I just ran as far away that I could come from everything. I stopped as came into the forest and sunk down to the ground with my back against a rock. The letter was still clutched in my hand and I really just wanted to rip it to pieces or throw it away, scream in frustration. But I did neither of that. Just breathed heavily, tampering down my anger until my breathing was under control once again. Then I rose, brushed off my clothes and started off toward Armitage farm.  
Final time, I thought. If this was all I was to him he could damn well deliver his own letters from now on, I wasn’t going to be his delivery boy any more. I felt humiliation for what he had thrown in my face. As if I was supposed to feel grateful for everything they did for me here. He was no better than Mycroft in that regard obviously, just better at hiding that feeling until I opposed him in something. Then, suddenly, his real feelings came to surface apparently. I had looked at him as if gazing upon a god the whole time I had been here, but at this moment he was arguably very human, and it was a shocking conclusion for me. The pedestal I had put him on was so high that the fall from it made me fell the impact to the core of my heart.  
As I reached Armitage farm I was angry again and it was probably visible on my face as Victor Trevor didn’t greet me as he usually did, just dropped the riffle he was pointing towards three cans stacked upon several wooden crates and safety locked the weapon before facing me completely.  
“Are you upset, lad?” he said, and I nodded, still trying to breathe through my anger, calming down.  
“Come with me inside. I’ll get you something to drink.”  
I followed him inside and sat down by the table as he poured me some water in a mug.  
“Here,” I said sullenly, handing him the wrinkly letter. I could see his eyes glittering at the sight of it, probably hungry for new information. But as he opened it and started to read his face changed. He looked as if he had been slapped right across the mouth and quickly crumpled the paper in to a little ball in his fist, turning his upset eyes away from me. He put his knuckle to his mouth as if to stifle a sound and didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared out the window.  
“Do you have a reply for him?” I finally asked.  
“Yes. But not in writing. Besides, you said you didn’t like exchanging letters between us anymore.”  
“No, I don’t.”  
I drank some water before continuing.  
“You take that in consideration at least. Sherlock more or less demands that I continue.”  
Victor snorted but it was tinted with sadness.  
“Well, he always was a headstrong boy. Impulsive.”  
He turned his head and looked at me.  
“Did he hurt your feelings perhaps?”  
I hesitated, because Victor Trevor was no friend of mine, but on the other hand he was the only one here who really asked how I felt. About anything.  
“A little.”  
“I see.”  
He became quiet again and turned his eyes away. The knuckle still placed in front of his mouth trembled a little.  
“How long have you known Sherlock?” I asked.  
“We met when he was younger, almost at your age, but we didn’t really start to talk until last summer. He was sent down from school and bored. Helped me find my mare when it ran away, asked me many questions about London, I don’t know, it just sort of happened.”  
He looked so crestfallen now that I found it hard to look at him.  
“Why you? What makes him want to be with you?”  
“I don’t know. Or rather, I thought I didn’t know, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he willingly sought out my company. I promised to take him to London, get a flat there, leave this place. Promised him everything I could come up with just to make him come back every day.”  
I could recognize the feeling. The willingness to bend yourself almost out of shape for the sake of his attention. It wasn’t really his fault, it was just the effect he had on people. Either you didn’t like him, as Philip Anderson and Anthea were evidence of, or you became almost obsessed with him, like myself, Victor Trevor and Charles Magnussen.  
“But you’re still here?” I asked quietly.  
“Well, leaving now, while he’s underage, would be a crime. I would be seen as a kidnaper. But it was a promise I made him. That we will one day leave together.”  
“Is that why he comes here, you think? Because you’re his ticket out?”  
Victor sighed deeply and closed his eyes while his hand finally lowered to rest in his lap.  
“You ask too many questions about things you don’t know anything about. You’re just a little boy.”  
“So explain to me then, if you think that I don’t know anything. It’s the least you can do as you demand that I help you out. Make me see what I’m helping you with!”  
“It’s something your father should talk to you about, not a stranger.”  
“But my father is dead. There’s no one to tell me about these things.”  
Victor opened his eyes again. They were red rimmed now.  
“I’m not talking to you about what Sherlock and I have between us, it’s not any of your business. If you think that the only reason he comes here is because I promised him that we would move to London, then you’re wrong! It might have been at first, but not now. Not now!”  
He shouted the last part and got up so quickly from his seat that the mug of water got knocked over and fell to the floor.  
His eyes were wild with anger and hurt, it had all come in a flash and I rushed up from where I was standing, quickly heading for the door. I didn’t want to stay and face the sudden wrath and offence from this man any longer.  
“No, wait!” I could hear him shout after me, but I didn’t stop. I just cast a last glance his way and saw him hurl one of the chairs in to the wall in anger, probably regretting scaring me away as I was the only safe contact between him and Sherlock. Too late, I thought as I continued to run, far away from him and Armitage farm, committed to never ever return again.


	10. Deadly nightshade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still angry with Sherlock but is starting to warm up to Victor Trevor after Magnussen reveals some news about him

I stayed away from both Sherlock and Victor Trevor, determined to just be with Mike from now on. It wasn’t that difficult to begin with as Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and I wasn’t going anywhere near Armitage farm. Dinner came and went without Sherlock showing up and if Mycroft had seemed tense during breakfast he was positively thunderous right now. Magnussen was not there but everybody else noticed the tension and dinner was a very quiet affair.   
The next day Mike and I stayed away for the better part of the morning. We explored the surroundings again, venturing even further away, this time near the small ruin of an old chapel. Everything grew wild and untamed there and Mike showed me a bush of Atropa belladonna among the stone remnants.   
“It’s deadly nightshade. Very poisonous.” He explained smugly, as if revealing a well-known secret to an outsider. My mood hadn’t really improved after yesterday and the people around me had started to grate on my nerves, more or less.   
I reached out a hand to touch the black berries clustering in the bush, but Mike slapped the hand away anxiously.   
“Don’t touch it!”   
“I’m not going to eat them, silly.”  
“My father told me that everything is poisonous when it comes to belladonna, not just the berries.”  
Ignoring him I reached out once again, this time for one of the purple flowers instead and to Mike’s horror plucked it.  
“Now you’ve got poison on your fingers,” he whispered.  
“Yes. I might need it for my magic one day,” I said ominously, but in reality only joking of course.   
As I was putting the flower in my buttonhole we heard a mumbling voice coming from inside the ruin. It was a man’s voice, far too quiet to be recognizable and we both looked in the direction of the sound but saw nothing but darkness from the opening to the old chapel.  
“It’s probably that loony bird seller, trying to hide in there. Maybe he’s talking to the birds,” Mike laughed and started to sneak toward the chapel. “Let’s scare him.”  
“I thought you got rid of him yesterday?”  
“He left before Magnussen and Mr Vernet arrived. That idiot farmer refused to hold him, so he just ran. And here he is today, still trespassing. Those birds looked really scruffy and ill too. We should release them into the wild.”  
As we came closer the voice became more distinct and the sound that followed it made the blood in my veins grow cold with dread. It was a laugh. But not just any laugh. It was Sherlock laughing.   
Surprisingly Mike didn’t recognize it, probably too attached to his idea of it being the bird seller in there.  
The laugh was followed by more mumbling noises that soon turned in to panting and then what distinctly sounded like kissing and Mike’s eyes grew round in shock.   
“My god! There’s people cuddling in there. Or worse!”  
It was sweet really, I felt like several years older than my friend when hearing his assumption that someone was cuddling inside the dark, abandoned remains of the old chapel and knew that I myself probably would have been just as fascinatedly horrorstruck but at the same time curious as he was, just a couple of weeks ago. Now that I knew who it was, making those noises, and certainly doing more than just cuddling, I felt nothing but dread down my spine. This couldn’t be exposed, I had to stop this somehow.  
Mike was still approaching the ruin and gestured me to follow.  
“Come on. Let’s sneak up on them and see who they are.”   
“Wait!”  
“What for?”  
“We don’t know who they are. They might get angry. Please, let’s just leave?”  
Mike bit his lip hesitantly. He was still curious, but he was also a coward, he wouldn’t dare to approach on his own. I started to turn around and walk away to indicate the firmness in my decision.   
“The nerve of some people. Out here, where anyone could come by,” he muttered angrily, still shaken by the notion.   
“Well, to be fair, normally people don’t venture this far out, it’s so secluded. How would they know that we decided to visit this place at exactly the same time as them?” I said, trying to sound neutral when speaking.  
Mike came up to me and we started to retreat where we came from.  
“I wonder what Mycroft would say if he heard about this?” he said as we came out in to open air again, on the hill surrounding the ruin. Donnithorpe and the forest lay before us and beyond the forest, Armitage farm. Even further beyond was Beecher Cottage were Magnussen resided. This place was secluded and yet very near, hiding in plain sight. I couldn’t agree more with Mike when he called out the nerve of such an act, right here in the open. By the mention of Mycroft, I panicked and grabbed him firmly by the arm.  
“No, please don’t tell him, Mike!”  
Mike furrowed his brow.  
“Why ever not?”  
“Just promise that you won’t.”  
We looked at each other and I wasn’t sure if he suddenly put the pieces together or if he just didn’t want to argue his case any further, but he nodded curtly and continued to walk down the hill. I looked back at the ruin one last time before following him. We didn’t talk on the whole way home.  
When we came back to the house we met Mycroft coming down the stairs.  
He nodded in our direction and we nodded back, about to pass him when he stopped me.  
“Do you know what flower that is, on your lapel?”  
I looked down in confusion first, having entirely forgotten the nightshade residing there.  
“I tried telling him not to take it, that it’s poisonous. But he wouldn’t listen,” Mike said.  
Mycroft met my eyes and gave a long, penetrating look.  
“Yes, sometimes temptation is bigger than common sense. You see something you like, and you take it, without a thought of the consequences. “  
With that he continued walking, leaving us staring after him.  
As it was so hot today, the lunch wasn’t catered to in the dining room like normally and consisted of nothing more than sandwiches, fruit and beverages. Mike and I took our lunch under a tree in the garden at my suggestion, wanting to avoid meeting Sherlock.   
After lunch Mr Magnussen came by.  
He suggested a game of croquet, but Mike wanted to go for a swim with Philip, so it was just me, Gregory, Mr Vernet and Magnussen playing. Mycroft and Anthea joined us on the lawn as spectators, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight. It seemed to be his usual modus operandi from now on. I wondered if he had shown up for lunch or if he and Victor were still together somewhere.  
I was woken from my thoughts by Gregory who pointed out that it was my turn.  
“Daydreaming of that catch you made at the cricket match the other day?” he said jokingly. “You saved us all from being humiliated by Trevor. He could have won that day.”  
Mycroft shot a glare in Gregory’s direction and Magnussen looked annoyed too for a second, but then straightened his features in to a bland expression.  
“I talked to Trevor again about joining the war against the Boer. He’s the right age, has no immediate family except for the parents and he’s a very good shot. I lent him a rifle for shooting practice, he seemed taken with the idea. Not that I’m that good an advocate for the glory of war, but that painting business he’s indulging in isn’t going to lead to anything substantial. A man of that age should be thinking about his career and stop day dreaming.”   
As I hit the ball with my mallet I could see, from the corner of my eye, how Mycroft leaned forward, suddenly very interested in what Magnussen was saying.  
I was very surprised by this news. I had seen the rifle myself and Victor shooting with it, but him joining the war, leaving Sherlock behind, didn’t seem plausible.   
“Is Victor really thinking about joining?” I blurted out and Magnussen immediately zoomed in on me.   
“So, it’s Victor, is it? Didn’t know you two were on first name basis?”  
I shrugged and looked away, embarrassed for giving myself away that easily. Magnussen smiled at me, showing his teeth, before continuing.  
“As far as joining the war, he was reluctant the first time I brought it up, but when I talked to him yesterday evening he suddenly seemed more interested. “  
Mycroft rose and walked over to Magnussen while Mr Vernet took his turn at the game.  
“Is it really so? That he’s planning to leave?”, he almost hissed to Magnussen.  
“Yes, I think he actually might,” Magnussen answered, and they looked at each other for a second, as if conducting a conversation without words, like Mycroft and Sherlock sometimes did.  
“Well, that sounds like good news. He won’t be terribly missed either as he has nothing tying him here.”  
With that conclusion Mycroft retreated back to his chair and let us continue with our game.  
I wondered if Sherlock knew of this, but I couldn’t rally ask, could I? Where was he anyway?  
While Magnussen took his turn, I walked over to Gregory as casually as I could, pretending to just pass time with a little conversation while waiting for my turn.  
“I haven’t seen Sherlock all day, is he ill or something?” I said in a low tone, trying not to get the attention of Mycroft or Magnussen.  
“No. He’s left to go visit someone in the village. He does that sometimes. I think it’s his old violin teacher or something like it. He must be very dear to Sherlock because he’s visited the old man several times this summer. Probably very old and sick, without many visitors. It’s nice to see Sherlock care for someone like that. He’s not usually the caring type exactly, “Gregory chuckled.  
Then suddenly he turned his head and looked at me, slightly confused.  
“Well, you should know really, he’s sent you with letters to the old man several times the last couple of weeks I’ve been told.”  
I froze, unable to gather my wits that quickly. So, someone had noticed my absence and Sherlock had served them a story about exchanging letters with an old violin teacher down in the village? Without informing me of course. I could expose the lie right here and now, it would serve him right for not informing me of his plans, but in the end, that decision would backfire on all of us. So I just nodded and concentrated on playing the game, not asking any more questions.  
An hour before dinner, as the sun was beginning to descend I walked over the field toward Armitage farm. Even as I had decided to never come back here I felt that I needed to hear, from Victor Trevor himself, if he really was planning on joining the war.  
I found him out on the field this time. He was dressed in a stained robe, standing in front of a canvas, surrounded by billowing wheat, painting the horizon and the tower at Donnithorpe that could be seen over the treetops of the forest between the mansion and this place.   
When he heard me approach he turned his eyes to glance at me and a small smile played on his lips before turning to his painting again.  
“I didn’t think you would ever come back here again.”  
“I wasn’t planning to.”  
“But you did. What changed you mind?”  
I came up to him and took a close look at what he was painting. It wasn’t anything special, just a landscape with the forest, the tower, a small patch of the field and the summer sky. Nice and accurate but nothing more. Maybe Magnussen was right, maybe Victor’s paintings weren’t up to standard for a making a career out of it?  
“Is it true that you’re thinking of joining the war against the Boer?”  
He put his brush down and gave me a penetrating look.  
“Who told you that?”  
“Charles Magnussen. Do you know that he and Sherlock are getting engaged?”  
Victor nodded slowly and looked away.  
“Is that way you’re leaving?”  
“I’m not sure I am leaving, I haven’t decided yet. It’s up to Sherlock really.”  
“So, you have told him about it then?”  
“No. not yet.”  
“Well how can it be up to him if he doesn’t know about it?”  
Victor sighed and drew a hand over his face tiredly.   
“It’s complicated, let’s leave it at that.”  
We stood there watching each other for a minute. He was my rival, sort of. I should rejoice in his decision to leave but I didn’t because I knew it would upset Sherlock and besides, I would be leaving myself when summer was over. I might never see any of these people again.  
“I hope you haven’t told anyone about any of this? Not even that chubby little friend of yours?”  
“No, I promise.”  
You know, Sherlock always said we could trust you. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right about you. You’re a very good lad. I’m sorry for shouting at you last time, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just upset.”  
I nodded.  
“It’s alright.”  
“No, it wasn’t. And it wasn’t right what Sherlock said to you either. He told me about it and for what it’s worth he’s very sorry for hurting you. And you know how significant that is coming from him. Has he apologized yet?”  
“I haven’t seen him all day.”  
“Well, when you do, give him a chance. He was upset after an argument with his brother and this whole thing with Magnussen, it’s eating him up inside. He’s very unbalanced at the moment.”  
I nodded.  
“I know that you have all these questions, it’s natural for a boy your age to be curious and someday I might even sit down and tell you everything you want to know about all of this. But right now, is not that time.”   
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll have other people tell me what I need to know if I want to.” I smiled cheekily, and he grinned in return.  
“As long as what they’re telling you the truth.”   
“I don’t know if Sherlock told you, but I’m a magician. I could probably put a spell on them, forcing them to tell me the truth.”  
“Ah, yes. He did actually tell me that. Right after you arrived. He was very fascinated by you truthfully. I was quite jealous.”  
We laughed and right then, a weight lifted from my chest. It was my suppressed anger elevating and it felt easier to breathe for the first time in a long time. Strangely enough, considering none of the circumstances had really changed.   
“Do you want me to bring him a final message from you?” I asked. “Just this one last time.”  
“If you’re sure, yes. I don’t have a pen or paper with me, so it’ll have to be verbal though. Are you good at remembering things?”  
“Yes. Just say it.”  
“Tell him that I can’t see him tomorrow, but Friday is good. At half past six, same place as usual. Got that?”  
“Yes. Half past six, usual place. I’ll tell him.”  
“Thank you, John. And remember, give him a chance. He’s all angles and thorns sometimes, but he really likes you and there aren’t many that he really cares for. Or that care for him.”  
With those words fresh in my mind I started my walk back to Donnithorpe.


	11. Scheming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes use of a little magic and several lies.

Everyone was gathered at dinner this evening, including Magnussen. He was seated across from Sherlock, trying to get his attention throughout the whole dinner, without much luck. Sherlock wasn’t particularly rude, just very quiet, picking at his food without any interest and Mycroft had to tell him to pay attention several times.  
Mike was also surprisingly quiet. He had been ever since our discovery of the events inside the abandoned chapel ruins. I wasn’t sure if he was fully aware of everything, but I assumed that he suspected something bordering on the truth. Perhaps not who the participants were but still some of the details and he wasn’t happy about it. And he was very displeased with me. He suspected, considering my actions, that I knew even more but hadn’t shared it with him.  
So, after dinner I was left to my own devices while Mike set up a game of chess with Philip and the others retreated to the music room where Anthea played on the piano. I wasn’t that tempted to join them, it looked really boring, with Sherlock on the sofa with Magnussen next to him on one side and Mr Vernet on the other, talking about things utterly dull while Mycroft discussed something possibly even more dreary with Gregory. No one was even listening to Anthea as I snuck out and went to the room I was once again sharing with Mike.  
I drew the curtains so the room became dark and sat down by the small desk with a candle, my book of spells, the Tarot cards and the Belladonna I had plucked. I picked out the card of The lovers and put it in front of me, opened the book of spells until I found the suitable page and then grinded the poisonous flower between my fingers. The remnants fell down on the card and I lighted the candle with a match.  
“I wish for Sherlock and Victor to quarrel and never see each other again.”  
I let a drop of wax fall upon the Belladonna petals and the card.  
“I want it to end between them before anyone finds out and something terrible will happen.”  
Another drop landed, and I reached for a small needle to prick my little finger, the only finger not having come into contact with the poisonous flower. A drop of blood landed upon the card, mixing with the Belladonna and the wax.  
“Sherlock will arrive too early and Victor won’t be there. When he does arrive, they will fight over him going to war and the quarrel will break them apart.”  
Another drop of blood. Then I lifted the card, folded it in the middle before holding it to the flame. As the fire started to lick the edges of the card I said solemnly:  
“I command it to be so. I command it to all end on Friday.”  
As the card began to really catch fire I released it into a metal dish lying on the desk and saw it turn in to ash.  
This wasn’t anything different from any others spells I had done before, I wasn’t scared of tampering with magical powers if it meant that my wishes came true, but this time my actions left an uneasy feeling in my chest, as if I had finally crossed a line I wasn’t supposed to cross without consequences.  
As I was washing my hands afterwards there was a knock on the door.  
To my surprise it was Sherlock standing outside, for once polite enough to remain standing outside until summoned inside. He looked somewhat sheepish as he glanced at me before giving the room a once over.  
“It’s very dark in here. Were you going to bed already?”  
“No.”  
We hadn’t talked since his tantrum the other day and I didn’t feel like making this any easier for him. He had been very rude after all. Victor had said that Sherlock felt sorry afterwards, but I didn’t want to hear it from someone else, if Sherlock was truly sorry, he had to apologize himself.  
He probably sensed it because he carefully seated himself on the bed I shared with Mike and put his hands primly in his lap.  
“I know that you’re angry with me…”  
He hesitated, maybe expecting me to protest out of curtesy, but I said nothing, just dried my hands on a towel hanging next to the water basin.  
“…and rightly so,” he continued when I didn’t answer. “I was in a foul mood that day. I shouldn’t had let it out on you, it was not your fault. “  
I turned to really look at him. He looked strangely small on the large bed. Or maybe he had a way of seeming smaller, more vulnerable. It was probably a way of manipulating me into feeling sorry for him, making it easier to forgive him.  
“You don’t have to deliver any more letters. We’ll find another way to communicate.”  
“Thank you,” I offered when nothing more was forthcoming.  
“I’m sorry about what I said too. I would never say anything to anyone about your lack of money, it just slipped my mouth when I was angry, you don’t have to worry about it.”  
He plucked a cigarette from his case and lighted it without asking first. Some things obviously didn’t change.  
“It smells a bit weird in here,” he commented after inhaling a lungful. “Even for being a room with two boys in it.”  
I had disposed of both cards, candle, flower and ashes so he had no way of knowing where the smell came from but as a way to distract him I sat down next to him. I could continue to torment him with playing aloof to his asking my forgiveness, but I decided to let it go this once. No use in dragging it out any longer, he was obviously uncomfortable apologizing but still sincere in his intentions and I didn’t want him to turn his attention to my actions a few minutes earlier. So, I offered him an olive branch.  
“I have a final message from Victor. Or final as in the final that will be delivered from me.”  
He perked up.  
“Oh?”  
“He says that he can’t see you tomorrow, but that Friday will work, at six o’clock. Usual place.”  
“Six o’clock? Are you sure about the time?”  
“Yes. He was very clear on that.”  
Sherlock looked me straight in the eyes, then suddenly leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek.  
“You’re a friend in million, John Watson.”  
My heart began to race at his sudden tenderness and I wondered if I would ever get over this silly crush. If I had only been a few years older…  
I decided to put my plan in to action. No better time than now when I had his undivided attention.  
“Have you heard about Victor signing up to join the war against the Boer?” I asked innocently.  
His eyes narrowed and his whole body jerked back.  
“What do you mean? Who said that?”  
“Well, Magnussen told me, but Victor confirmed afterwards.”  
“But what is he thinking? It can’t be his idea from the start!”  
“Magnussen initiated the idea but…”  
“So. he’s playing dirty all of a sudden…”  
I didn’t know what to say because we still hadn’t talked about what exactly it was that I knew but when he saw my hesitation he just shook his head.  
“Oh, please! I know that you know more than you let on. Victor told me that he’s talked to you. But this isn’t really about Victor, it’s about Magnussen showing how he wants to play this game.”  
He rose from the bed, agitated now.  
“He and Mycroft think they have this whole plan worked out between them, but they don’t know who they’re messing with.”  
“Maybe Victor wants to go?” I tried but Sherlock would have none of that.  
“Hardly. Magnussen probably talked to him during a weak moment. Victor isn’t that strong as you would think. He’s very insecure.”  
“He seems much stronger than Magnussen.”  
“Well, he isn’t. Magnussen is cunning. He has Mycroft wrapped around his finger as well and my brother is too single minded when it comes to this house and our heritage to see clearly what’s in front of him.”  
Sherlock paced back and forth, irritated. He looked like a black feline with his ebony hair and angry eyes in the darkness of the room. I sighed. He was too agitated to be tricked into see any sense at the moment, my plan to separate Victor from him would have to play out on its own, without further interference from me.  
“If Charles makes Victor leave, I won’t agree to marry him, that’s for sure!”  
“It’s only natural for him to want to get rid of the competition.”  
“What competition? It’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”  
“You could marry Victor instead?”  
“I don’t want to marry at all!”  
At that moment there was a knock on the door and we both turned our heads as if expecting a monster to appear if we opened. Sherlock extinguished his still glowing butt from the cigarette, drew a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.  
“It’s probably Magnussen or Mycroft, coming to bring the sheep back to the fold. Thank you for the message, however reluctantly it was delivered. Like I said, you’re a true friend, John.”  
As the door opened to reveal Magnussen standing there, Sherlock leaned forward once again, this time to press his lips a little longer on my other cheek. If it was intentional, to rile Magnussen up or to truly show his appreciation of my help was unclear but didn’t matter to me. I met Magnussen’s eyes with a beaming smile and saw his eyes darken at the sight of my satisfied grin and Sherlocks mouth pressed against my cheek.  
“Knew that I could find you here, canoodling with Hermes. You’re missed in the music room, Sherlock. Anthea wants you to accompany her music with your violin.”  
He made a point of not including me as he reached out his arm to offer it to Sherlock. Over his shoulder he gave me a dark look.  
I stayed in my room for the rest of the evening. I heard the violin and closed my eyes as I lay on the bed, listening. Mike soon joined me, probably ordered to our room by one of the adults.  
He didn’t say anything first, just undressed, brushed his teeth and then climbed up on the bed to join me. I was still dressed and unwashed, tired but not ready to go to sleep just yet. I saw the dusk outside the window, clouds gathering in the sky, as if preparing for the first rainy day of this summer. After Sherlock left I had parted the curtains again so I could see the sky where I lay, listening to the faint music downstairs.  
“Why didn’t you tell me about the chapel earlier? You clearly knew who were in there.”  
He sounded disappointed in me. Maybe betrayed even. We weren’t the best of friends, but he had confided in me during our stay here and clearly thought that we should be sharing things with each other.  
I felt torn between lying or coming clean. I couldn’t say that Victor and Sherlock were meeting in secret, it would mean problems for all of us, but I couldn’t deny that I knew something either, it would just put another wedge between us. So I chose a middle ground.  
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”  
He turned his head, so he could se me clearly, his curiosity getting the better of him.  
“Promise me?” I asked again.  
“Yes, alright.”  
I turned to look at him.  
“It was Gregory and Anthea.”  
“What?!”  
He jerked up to a sitting position and I could sense his surprise rather than see it in the dark room. His glasses glimmered in the light coming from the window and his features made up a mask of pale doughy flesh, he looked a bit like I imagined the Cheshire cat in Alice in wonderland looked like, full of curiosity and smugness. He always was a gossip.  
“I saw them in the maze one afternoon, while you were sick. They didn’t see me of course and I heard them talk. They’re clearly in some sort of relationship.”  
It came so easy once I had decided which route to go. What was one more little lie among the others I already had going?  
“But why do they keep it a secret? Gregory could court her if he wanted to, Philip wouldn’t mind, I’m sure”  
“Maybe they couldn’t wait?” I offered, and Mike nodded.  
“Maybe. But how stupid. It’s not like any of them are committed to someone else. Anthea is actually rather old to be a spinster. She should find someone soon or no one will have her. Just look at Mycroft, he’s beginning to pass his prime.”  
“He isn’t that old. Only 24.”  
“Yes, but people look past him now. Take Magnussen for example. He just wants Sherlock. There is a small window of time, my mother says. Sneak through it or remain standing on the outside for the rest of your life. 24 isn’t much but for someone like Mycroft, with neither looks or fortune, it’s beginning to go downhill after a certain age. That’s why he’s eager for Sherlock to not mess things up.”  
I nodded because I had gathered as much. It was a depressing idea. As Mike continued to talk, his displeasure in me forgotten now, I turned towards the window again and looked through it. The music downstairs had quieted, and clouds were gathering outside.  
In two days it was my birthday.


	12. Patience wearing thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the village reveals new information about Sherlock's past.

The next day Sherlock announced that he was leaving for a visit to his violin teacher in the village.   
It was still early, Magnussen hadn’t arrived yet and Mycroft was still reading the morning paper.   
“Must you? You’ve been away almost every day lately,” he said, putting down the paper and giving his brother a scrutinizing look. His voice didn’t yet have that demanding tone it usually ended up having, when talking to Sherlock, he was still on the right side of patience, probably because of the early hour. Sherlock normally didn’t come down and eat with us this early, so he seemed eager to make an early start to wherever he was heading. I highly doubted he was going anywhere near the village and his violin teacher.   
“What else am I to do in this sweltering heat? It’s boring here,” he sighed, in answer to Mycroft’s comment.   
“Well, Charles is coming to lunch…”  
“Right…”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“…and we have to prepare for John’s birthday tomorrow.”  
Both Mike and Sherlock turned their heads to look at me, both probably having forgotten about what day it was tomorrow.   
“Oh. Well, certainly.”   
“He has gotten his gifts already of course, when we gave him his new outfit, but we should plan something nonetheless,” Mycroft mused and turned his focus back to the paper. “We’ll see how the weather turns out. And a cake, we’ll need that. What kind do you like, John? Chocolate? Strawberry perhaps?”  
“Figures you would be most interested in that subject, brother. But no need to worry, a cake you didn’t like probably never existed. I’m sure John couldn’t care less about the flavor of his birthday cake.”  
We smiled toward each other mischievously but if Mycroft saw it he didn’t acknowledge it.   
“When I turned 14 my parents gave me a bicycle,” Mike said. “It’s waiting for me in Bombay. I was in school when I had my birthday, but they sent me a letter and photograph of it.”  
To my surprise Mycroft made the following statement, not even raising his eyes to look at us but with his voice conveying an unusual kindness for once, if maybe not completely without purpose.  
“That’s a very good idea actually. A bicycle means more freedom to explore your surroundings better, John. Maybe you should accompany Sherlock to the village and see if there is a bicycle available at Mr Milne’s. The man seems to have a little bit of everything in his workshop.”  
Sherlock looked irritated to have his plan spoiled by his brother but couldn’t say anything about it. I on the other hand wondered what his plan really was, considering Victor’s message that he wasn’t available to meet until tomorrow. Maybe Sherlock thought that he could sneak over to Armitage farm early for a quick visit but that didn’t suit my strategy at all, determined as I was to not give them any opportunity to talk themselves out of this perfect obstacle Magnussen had put in their way. Sherlock was probably itching to go and talk some sense into Victor and rid him of his plans to join the war. If he was given this opportunity and succeeded, my wish to break them apart would be ruined. So, I readily agreed to Mycroft’s suggestion and even invited Mike to join us, so Sherlock wouldn’t attempt any tricks.  
Sherlock shot me a displeased look.  
“Mr Leigh is very old and tired these days and he really appreciates my visits. Alone.”  
“Well, considering that you sent poor John to his house on several occasions during the summer with letters from you, and also paid him many visits yourself, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you made other plans just this once. It is our guest’s birthday after all and the event needs some preparation. Besides you could take the boys with you to visit Mr Leigh first and then go and ask Mr Milne about the bicycle. If you feel so worried about neglecting your duties to an old teacher.”  
The tone of sarcasm crept in to the last sentence. Mycroft was not going to budge.  
“I’m not sure…,” Sherlock began but wasn’t given the opportunity to finish.  
“Otherwise, you could always stay here and make sure to entertain Charles when he arrives for lunch. He’s always looking forward to seeing you, as you well know. “  
“I spent the whole evening yesterday entertaining both you and him, not to mention Anthea, with your inane musical wishes for me to play on the violin. I think I ‘ve done my share of entertaining already.”  
“Well, you’re given a choice today. Take the boys to the village and talk to Mr Milne about the bicycle or stay here and be a perfect companion to the true owner of this house. We mustn’t forget that, we’re still here because of the kindness he’s showing us, not because he owes us anything. If he for some reason likes your company, however unfathomable that notion is to me, the least we could do is indulge the man in his wishes.”  
I was surprised. It was the first time I had heard Mycroft mention their predicament this openly, in front of others. Maybe he was beginning to come to the end of his tether, with the pressure of Magnussen’s demands and Sherlock’s refusal to easily comply to his desires. I could understand that he wanted his brother to just marry Magnussen and their financial problems would be solved, but on the other hand, the thought of Magnussen putting his damp hands on Sherlocks body, kiss him with his shark like mouth, made a shiver run down my spine. Sherlock’s dislike of the idea was evident even if he played along to a certain extent, probably out of loyalty to his brother. However prickly their relationship seemed from the outside there was obviously some sort of love and devotion between them. But right now, Sherlock was very annoyed with Mycroft.  
“Yes, how kind of him. And without any conditions too.”  
“Sherlock….”  
Sherlock sighed and put his teacup down.  
“Fine, I’ll take the boys to the village.”  
As we stood outside, waiting for Mike to join us, I took the opportunity to ask him about his intentions.  
“You could have told me about the cover story with your violin teacher that you obviously have been using for a long time now.”  
“What for? People stop asking when you give them just a little bit of information if it is dull and probable enough. No-one wants to hear any details about me sending you to deliver messages to an old man in the village that they know nothing about and have no interest in knowing either. I wouldn’t even have been forced to come up with a cover story if you hadn’t been so obvious when you sneaked away. Even an idiot like Philip noticed your frequent absence, I had to come up with something. I’m quite pleased with my solution actually.”  
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. There was no convincing him that he should have included me in his plans, he was too pleased with himself to see reason, especially as it seemed to have worked. No-one asked any questions about it or doubted the story.  
That left the question about his intentions with this morning, so I moved on to that subject instead.  
“Victor told you he couldn’t see you today, what are you playing at?”  
Sherlock turned to look at me.  
“Who says I’m going to see him?”  
“Oh please! Where else would you be headed?”  
“I don’t spend all my time running after Victor Trevor. I’ve other interest too, making the best of my uneventful surroundings here.”  
“Like what?”  
But he didn’t answer, and Mike came out right that moment, so any further questions would have to wait. 

The village wasn’t that far but Mycroft had insisted on us taking the carriage. Maybe as a way to assure that Sherlock actually went where we had decided. It would be easier to ditch us if we went on foot.  
The village was much smaller than the town where Sherlock and I had taken the train to buy my new clothes and people there seemed to know who we where even if I had just seen a couple of them during the cricket match.  
The carriage dropped us off outside the village, near a bakery and we continued on foot, heading straight for Mr Milne’s workshop. Sherlock didn’t bother explaining why we weren’t heading for Mr Leighs house first. I knew of course, but Mike didn’t. He on the other hand didn’t ask either, he just strolled beside me, behind Sherlock, somewhat bored. He wasn’t particularly fond of the villagers, he looked down on them and they didn’t like us. There was a silent animosity between them and people they considered to be non-locals. Even if Sherlock was from an estate in the same area as their village, he was still one of the others, not one of them.  
Mr Milne was a thin, weaselly-looking man with a thick moustache and oil stained hands. He was a mechanic and was standing outside his workshop with the remnants of a broken carriage, trying to put the vehicle back together. He looked Sherlock up and down without extending a hand and Sherlock let his full arrogance show, pinpointing the man with a stony look.  
He explained our business in clipped tones and Mr Milne, probably dying to give this arrogant youth a piece of his mind but still needing to stay on the right side of polite on the count of him being a customer, instead reluctantly turned around to show us inside. It turned out that he did have a bicycle we could buy but he still had some preparations to make on it before we could take it with us.   
“Boys, stay here and wait while I go pay Mr Leigh a quick visit. Don’t leave, I’ll be back within the hour.”  
“Wait!” I tried but he had already turned around, heading out of the workshop before anyone of us could protest. Mr Milne disappeared to go get the right tools for the job while Mike and I just stood there as fools, with nothing else to do except wait for Sherlock to return.  
“Should we try to follow him?” I asked but Mike shook his head.  
“What for? I don’t want to go visit his old music teacher. It’s too hot and he’s probably really boring, like all old people. I meet enough stuffy teachers in school as it is. Lets’ just wait here like he said.”  
The village wasn’t anywhere near Armitage farm and Sherlock hadn’t sent Victor any messages, of that I was sure, so what was he up to exactly?   
As we stood there waiting something came to mind, a question I had been meaning to ask Mike while he was ill but had forgotten when he finally arose from his sickbed.   
“Why doesn’t Sherlock go to school? He’s just 17.”  
Mike grinned, always eager to share gossip when he knew it.  
“He did go to school, but he was sent down last year.”  
I could tell him that I had heard Gregory and Anthea talk about it but felt that Mike probably wanted to tell the whole story from the beginning, so I didn’t say anything about it.  
“What for?” I asked instead.  
“I’m not sure. Mother told me afterwards. He met someone there, a bad influence and they got up to some pretty bad things together. She wouldn’t tell me what, just that Sherlock was very reckless. He’s much tamer now, even if Mycroft probably thinks he’s a handful. There was nothing Mycroft could do, the school was very determined. No other school would take him afterwards either.”  
“What happened to the other student?”  
“Oh, it wasn’t a student. He was a professor. He was fired on the spot. But that’s all I know.”  
I couldn’t hold back my surprise and Mike beamed with delight.   
“I know! It’s quite scandalous. Good thing they could retreat out here to Norfolk, away from everyone. I think that’s why Mycroft worries too, because what will become of Sherlock if he doesn’t agree to marry Magnussen? That’s why he’s rushing the engagement. It will probably be announced after your birthday celebration, or on Saturday maybe. Philip thinks Magnussen will propose to Sherlock today or tomorrow, most likely tomorrow and Mycroft will announce the news on Saturday.”  
“But who was the professor then, how did they meet?”  
“He was a professor in mathematics I think, not sure if he even had Sherlock as a pupil or if they just happened to be at the same school. As far as I can remember Sherlock was more interested in science and chemistry, not bothering that much with the other classes. That was also a problem Mycroft had to deal with, his brother’s reluctance to attend classes he thought was as waste of time. Just think if you and I would do that, just not show up to classes we didn’t like. The principal would have a fit!”  
He laughed, and I joined in after a second, but finding it hard to let the subject go despite the fact that Mike probably didn’t know anything more. So, Sherlock had a history of getting involved with older men and ending up being in trouble? I didn’t know if he had been in a romantic entanglement with this professor Moriarty or not, but the outcome had been bad for him nonetheless.

We continued to talk about other things until Sherlock reappeared.   
But Mr Milne wasn’t finished with the bicycle yet so Sherlock decided that Mike and I should take the carriage home and he would wait for Mr Milne to finish and then bring it with him by walking back to Donnithorpe. Mike was very eager to leave and being his friend, I had no other choice but to follow him, leaving Sherlock behind.   
When we came back to Donnithorpe Mr Magnussen had arrived and was lounging in the garden with the others. He was disappointed to learn that Sherlock wasn’t with us and Mycroft wondered if he perhaps should order the carriage once more back to the village to bring Sherlock home, but I assured him that he probably was on his way home already.  
While the others prepared themselves for lunch I ran as fast as I could to see if Victor was at home and if Sherlock was with him, despite the information Victor had given us, that he wouldn’t be available. But as I approached the farm I could see that it was abandoned, and I had to hurry back home before the others started to miss me.  
Lunch came and went without Sherlock showing up and I could see how irritated Mycroft was. Magnussen was calm throughout the whole meal but by the end suddenly started talking about Donnithorpe and there was a poignant edge to his words as he compared it to his other estate, the family home, in Denmark.  
“When I heard about this place, I was told it was the crown jewel in a county full of beautiful manors, and it has certainly lived up to it’s reputation. But still, it is somewhat remote and that isn’t really useful for a man as myself that needs to have something closer to London. It would be appropriate as a home if I had a family of course, but as a place only for myself I have other estates more suited for that reason.”  
“You’re not thinking of selling it?” Anthea asked and shot Mycroft a worried look.  
“Perhaps. If I can’t come up with at reason to keep it of course. It’s a costly house and I have something similar in Denmark so I hardy want to keep it just for the beautiful surroundings.”  
Mycroft didn’t move a muscle, but he was obviously bothered. Magnussen was tired of waiting for promises of an engagement to Sherlock who was never present and he was starting to put pressure on the person he knew would suffer the most if he threatened to sell Donnithorpe. If that happened the house would truly be lost to the Holmes family. Their only chance to keep it was sitting opposite Mycroft right now, expecting to marry the absent Holmes brother but beginning to lose faith in that ever happening.  
When Sherlock arrived with the bicycle it was after three o’clock in the afternoon, his hair wild and his cheeks rosy. He looked very pleased with himself, but Mycroft was angry.  
“What took you so long?”  
“It wasn’t my fault that Mr Milne couldn’t work any faster. And it’s quite a walk from the village too. I stopped by Mr Leigh for lunch.”  
“But you look positively disheveled. Like you’ve been running through a bush or something.”  
“I think he looks absolutely glowing,” Magnussen pointed out and gave Sherlock an appreciative look.   
And he did and that was what worried me. Had he managed to track Victor down somewhere or had he been up to something else, entirely inappropriate? He didn’t look like person who had been sitting at a workshop all day, rolling his thumbs.  
“Go up and get changed, we’re having tea at four.” Mycroft ordered, and Sherlock swept by, taking the stairs two steps at a time. I decided to go after him.   
I needed to get some answers.


	13. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to spend John's birthday. But things are starting to go downhill now.

“Where have you been?”  
I caught him by the arm as he was about to walk in to his room. He jerked back and looked down at me.  
“What do you mean? You know where I’ve been.”  
“Ha! As if a day sitting waiting at Mr Milne’s workshop results in a disheveled appearance like that. Have you been with Victor?”  
He shrugged my hand off his arm and opened his door. I had never been inside his room before. As he walked inside I followed him, not asking for permission.  
It was a large room, much bigger than the one I shared with Mike. Lots of books lined the walls and many of the available surfaces were covered with them, as well as magazines, sheets of paper, drawings and all sorts of knickknacks. There was a stuffed bat, a metronome, sheets of music, pictures of exotic animals, a map of London and a skull on the mantlepiece. I blinked and looked again. Yes, it was a skull. A human skull. Well, that was macabre. The room was quite a mess and I was frankly surprised that Mycroft let him have it like this when everything else in the house was so pristine and tastefully decorated and furnished.  
While I had let my eyes roam the room he had started to unbutton his shirt. When done he let it slide down to the floor where he left it in a heap.  
“How do you figure that I would be able to meet up with Victor when I have been busy all day, and very far away from Armitage farm too. With no way to communicate with him, and also the very significant fact that he told me, through you no less, that he was unavailable to meet up today? How desperate do you think I am to ignore all those factors just for the very slim chance of a meeting with him?”  
When he put it like that I could se the flaws in my idea, but he had been up to something, there was no denying that.  
“If not meeting him, what have you been up to all day?”  
“Like I told you this morning. I have other ways to entertain myself, I would go stir-crazy otherwise.”  
“What other ways to entertain yourself?”  
He shot me a glittering look and smiled.  
“Promise not to tell anyone?”  
I nodded, suddenly less worried and more curious than anything else.  
While talking, he had undressed and was standing in his underwear now and I felt my heartrate increase looking at him. He was very slim, skin almost translucent and with very defined limbs and angles. I had seen him that time by the river, in his swim suit, but this was different. The proximity to his almost naked body, the environment, my crush reappearing with haste. I turned toward the window, so I could focus.  
He disappeared in to the adjoining bathroom to clean himself up, came back with a wet towel that he scrubbed over is torso in swift movements wile I waited for him to continue.  
“One of the things Victor and I talk about when we meet is what we’re going to do when we move to London.”  
I looked at him like he had slapped me right across the face. Was he insane?  
“I know, I know. Magnussen. Things have changed a bit and obstacles have appeared. But the original plan was for us to leave this place and move to London. It might still happen. “  
“How?” I couldn’t help my incredulous tone.  
“It’s just details. I haven’t figured it all out yet. But the point is, I want to move to London and I want to be a detective.”  
I had heard Mycroft mention this that time when I had accidentally happened to eavesdrop on their argument about Magnussen, but not really paid any attention to it. I knew that Sherlock loved reading about crimes and all those penny dreadful stories, the crime reports in the paper that he talked with Gregory about. But to work as a detective? It sounded like a bad joke. Like things you said when you were younger and dreamed of becoming a pirate or a knight. Maybe the heat had finally got to him, maybe he was actually delirious? It would certainly explain his behavior for the last couple of days.  
But if he saw my skepticism he didn’t acknowledge it, just threw the towel on the bed and walked over to his wardrobe where he pulled out a new shirt and a pair of trousers.  
“Victor tells me things he’s heard down in the village and sometimes I investigate. Nothing really serious ever happens here, mostly petty theft or poachers roaming the woods, but It’s like practicing for when I get to London. There I will be confronted with real crimes and murderers. People with brainpower, criminal masterminds.”  
“I thought you said you wanted to be a chemist?”  
He turned his head and shot me a surprised look over his shoulder.  
“I never said that?”  
“But you mentioned having your own lab when growing up and leaving?”  
“A lab for doing forensic tests and so forth. Naturally. But not working as a chemist. The focus would be on crime solving.”  
He buttoned his shirt and ruffled his curls with his hands in front of the mirror. He looked very dashing.  
I started to shake my head, he was digressing from the subject. Or I was, with my staring at him. We had moved away from the subject of his whereabouts this afternoon.  
“Where were you today? Crime solving in the village or what?”  
He smiled and met my eyes through the reflection in the mirror.  
“It was hardly a bloodcurdling murder or anything. In the end it wasn’t more than a case of adultery and possibly insurance fraud, it might have resulted in some sneaking through bushes and an escape over Mr Brown’s roof top, hence my appearance. He was very displeased with his wife finding out his transgressions, people are so driven by emotions sometimes, it’s quite a weakness. So not exactly a crime worthy of my mind’s capacity, but still, it keeps my brain from rotting. I can’t wait to leave this place. I never want to live in the country ever again. Don’t know why Mycroft insists on us being here really, must be some stupid loyalty to our parents or something.”  
I wondered if I should bring up the subject of his interrupted stay at school and professor Moriarty. What had he offered Sherlock once? Was it the alluring temptation of mystery that had lured him in to clutches of this obviously depraved professor? I had difficulty believing that Sherlock would be the one to instigate the sort of actions that would get them both expelled from school. He had after all been very young. But on the other hand, he was reckless and sometimes thoughtless, so who knew?  
But before given the chance to ask him any further questions there was a knock on the door and a maid came in, with orders from Mycroft to join the rest of them for some tea.  
As we walked down the corridor I whispered to him, afraid that someone would hear:  
“If you’re so determined to leave for London, how is it that Magnussen thinks you’re getting engaged any day now?”  
“Like I said, there are still some details to solve. As long as I’m not 18 my hands are pretty much tied. But engagements have been broken before. “  
“Mr Magnussen is very determined. You should have heard him during lunch, he’s tightening the screws now.”  
“Yes, he seems to be that type. And Mycroft is desperate. But I still have some leeway even if it’s beginning to look troublesome at the moment. The biggest issue now is to talk some sense into Victor. He can’t be so stupid as to join the war in Africa. Good thing I’m meeting him tomorrow.”  
He looked so eager that I almost felt guilty for tricking him and performing that curse to separate him from Victor. Because I knew deep down inside why I did it.  
I was jealous.  
I wanted what Victor had. I wanted Sherlock to love me like he probably loved Victor. I begrudged them their happiness and I couldn’t stand it. For all the noble causes I told myself that I was feeling when performing my magic, that I did it for the sake of Sherlock’s safeness, a little because I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, in the end it was pure and simple selfishness and jealousy.  
It gnawed inside me and I felt uneasy thinking about it. But really, there was no denying facts.  
“Let’s see if Magnussen let’s you out of his sight so you can meet with Victor,” I mumbled but he just chuckled dryly and led me out in to the garden where the others waited. Mycroft beckoned him over and he was seated next to Magnussen. And it remained that way for the rest of the afternoon.  
But despite Magnussen’s efforts to get some time alone with Sherlock, he didn’t manage it, Sherlock always seemed to remain close to the rest of us and they were never truly by themselves so there was no news of an engagement that evening. When Magnussen left, he raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed it, the damp lips lingering on the smooth skin for what seemed like an eternity. If Sherlock disapproved he didn’t show it, Mycroft looked pleased and I swallowed the bile I felt rising, without a word. 

When I woke up on Friday morning the weather outside was cloudy and the suppressing heat that had ruled over us the last couple of weeks seemed to have finally withdrawn. There was even a chill in the air and for the first time since I was given my new clothes I actually contemplated wearing my Norfolk suit again. On the other hand, the new clothes were a birthday gift from all the residents in the house and since today was my actual birthday it might be seen as rude not to wear them.  
I came down to breakfast with Mike and to my surprise everyone was there this morning.  
Mycroft resided at the head of the table as he always did, and he smiled benignly at me as we came in and nodded towards the empty seat to his left. Sherlock was seated to his right and therefor ended up sitting opposite me. He was dressed in white and his black hair made a stark contrast to his paleness. He looked a bit pinched, as if he hadn’t slept that well but smiled toward me nonetheless as I sat down.  
“Well, congratulation, John, on your big day,” Mycroft said and smiled at me with a small strained smile.  
“Thank you.”  
“What do you wish to do today? Maybe we could take a walk down to the meadow and have a picnic?”  
Before I could answer Gregory interrupted him.  
“Why don’t we let John choose for himself what he wants to do? It’s his birthday after all?”  
Mycroft turned his head like a viper in Gregory’s direction and I saw Sherlock sink down a bit in his seat. There was probably some tension simmering beneath the surface.  
“I thought that was what I did,” Mycroft said pointedly. But Gregory wasn’t budging.  
“Well, no. You made the choice for him. It’s the boy’s birthday, he probably wants to do things he enjoys and so he should.”  
“What difference does it make, he seems completely satisfied with the suggestion.” Mycroft snapped and turned his head towards me instead. “Aren’t you happy with the arrangements?”  
“Yes, it sounds like a good idea,” I tried to appease him.  
“What else is he supposed to say?” Gregory objected, and it was the first time I heard someone other than Sherlock really point out Mycroft’s imperious behavior. “He’s a child and a guest. He’s clearly in a disadvantage. He probably just wants to play with Mike and eat cake. Maybe take that bicycle out for a ride.”  
Mycroft sighed.  
“Fine. John, is there anything special you wish to do today?”  
Feeling caught between Gregory’s wish to help and Mycroft’s short temper I stuttered that it was all fine, that a picnic sounded like a splendid idea.  
“Good. That’s settled then. You can play with Mike before lunch and then we go out to the meadow during the afternoon for the picnic. We’ll be back in time to cut the cake. By six o’clock.”  
I gulped and saw Sherlock look a bit uneasy. He was supposed to go meet Victor at six. Or at least he thought so. It would also ruin my plans if he ended up going later and meeting Victor when he was actually supposed to.  
“Six o clock?” I asked, hoping for Mycroft to ask if the time was not to my satisfaction and maybe be willing to change it, but instead he just gave me an irritated glare and raised his eyebrows.  
“Yes, six o clock. Charles Magnussen has promised to attend. Don’t make a fuss over such a detail as the time. You’re a child, what business is the time to you anyway?”  
“No, six o clock will be fine,” I sighed but felt miserable. Why was everything so difficult nowadays in comparison to how easy everything had felt when I first arrived? It was like a different experience all together.  
“Then it’s settled.”  
Mycroft took a sip of his tea and turned his attention to the marmalade, taking a spoonful on top of a scone while the rest of us sighed in relief for the storm in his voice that seemed to have passed for now, but Sherlock remained restless throughout the whole breakfast and didn’t eat anything at all.  
As I left the house after breakfast to go set up a game of croquet with Mike I heard his swift steps approach me from behind. I knew that it was him even before he grabbed my arm and turned me around. He looked wild in the face. Gone was the confidence from the day before, something must have transpired after I had gone to bed.  
Maybe Mycroft had told him to seal the deal with Magnussen, maybe he had been given an ultimatum or maybe he was just a victim of brotherly compassion. Everyone could see that Mycroft was beginning to lose his composure the closer the date of their evacuation came. He was seldom calm anymore, seemingly always on edge and therefore very testy and ill-tempered. That seemed now to have affected Sherlock as well. He pushed forward a piece of paper demandingly.  
“Here. Can you take this note to Victor? He must know that I can’t make it to six o clock today.”  
I shook my head.  
“No. I told you, I can’t be involved in that any longer. You said that you understood.”  
“But this is an emergency! You heard Mycroft during breakfast. At six o clock he’s invited Magnussen here and you’re supposed to cut your cake. I can’t be missing then.”  
But I was determined to not succumb this time and gave him a stubborn look.  
“Well, it is what it is. Victor will have to wait then.”  
Sherlock tried to pry open my hand and put the note inside it while I struggled against it. We were so occupied with this that we didn’t hear Mycroft approaching until he was right in front of us.  
“What’s going on here? What are you two fighting about?”  
Sherlock was more quick-witted than I was and produced an explanation without a tinge of hesitation to his voice.  
“I wanted John to take a letter for me to Mr Leigh, informing him that I would be stopping by this afternoon, but John simply refused. Claiming that he didn’t want to, because it’s his birthday. Imagine that!”  
He said it flippantly, like it was more a case of teasing than a full-blown argument and he nudged me in the ribs playfully as he said it and I nudged him right back.  
Mycroft studied us both but then turned to Sherlock.  
“You met Mr Leigh yesterday, no need to visit him daily, even if the man is lonely. Besides, the weather is too unstable right now, you can’t send John away to the village when the clouds are looking like that.”  
I was still standing dumbstruck with the note in my hand but now I quickly put it in my pocket.  
“John. You and I haven’t had that much time together, just the two of us. Sherlock and Mike monopolize you constantly it seems. I thought maybe we could take a walk over to the orchard? I’m sure you haven’t seen it properly yet?”  
I looked up at Sherlock who stubbornly didn’t meet my eyes and then I nodded slowly and joined Mycroft as he started to walk towards the orchard. I had an anxious feeling in my stomach, not only because of the note in my pocket and everything surrounding the note, but also because Mycroft had a way of making me feel inferior and scrutinized and like a lesser being whenever we spent even the smallest amount of time together. Desperately I tried grabbing at a final straw of hope.  
“Shouldn’t we ask Sherlock to join us?”  
“No, Sherlock has spent sufficient time with you I think, let someone else enjoy your company.”  
I nodded, and we kept walking.  
“He’s very fond of you. As we all are, “Mycroft continued. “You’re a very well-behaved boy. Very mature for your age. Hard to believe you’re only 14.”  
I didn’t really know what to say. It pleased me to hear his compliment but at the same time I had a feeling that he wasn’t entirely truthful.  
“Everyone has been very kind to me here, “I answered.  
“Have we? I’m not so sure. Mike became ill and you’ve had to look after yourself a lot. It can get very lonely for a boy with no one but adults surrounding him all day.”  
“I’ve had Sherlock.”  
“Yes, well he isn’t always the best company. And besides, Mr Magnussen has taken up a lot of his time. I’m sure you’ve heard that Mr Magnussen is very fond of Sherlock.”  
He turned his head as we kept walking and studied my features, searching my eyes for confirmation.  
I just nodded.  
We approached the orchard and spent the next few minutes pretending to look at the flowers, both probably very uninterested in our surroundings but keeping up appearances nonetheless.  
Politely he asked me what I knew of horticulture and I murmured something about not having any deep knowledge but that my mother had thought me some basics and biology class had filled in the gaps.  
“I’m more interested in poisonous flowers and flesh-eating ones.”  
“Hmm, sounds like Sherlock. I hope he hasn’t been a bad influence.”  
“No, not at all. I was interested in different kinds of poisons before I ever met him.”  
“Well, we have nothing like that here. It’s more traditional roses and magnolias. Our grandmother prepared this orchard when she first came here as a bride, so it’s been here for a long time.”  
I politely looked at the flowers. To me it looked like any ordinary small garden, but perhaps it had some sentimental value to Mycroft, best be respectful.  
“It’s a very large estate. But she liked this place the best, that’s why she planned for the orchard to be right here. Don’t know if I would have planned it quite like this, it’s a bit secluded from the house but it’s a peaceful place.”  
He looked down at me as if sensing my slight uninterest. I still felt slightly nervous and kept wondering why he was spending time with me. It was hardly out of the kindness of his heart, he had barely acknowledged my presence before today.  
“Am not boring you, am I? Flowers are maybe not your thing?”  
“It’s fine. But like I said, I’m more interested in the more dangerous specimens. We have a greenhouse at school where we sometimes have classes in biology and medicine. According to my mother I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up, so I’m mostly interested in those with medicinal use.”  
“Poisonous flowers are hardly medicinal,” Mycroft pointed out, but I was for the first time caught up in my own excitement and just carried on.  
“Some can be, if treated right. Like Atropa belladonna for example. Deadly if taken wrongly, one berry could kill you, but can be used in both make up and medicine if handed right. You have some belladonna growing by that old ruin…”  
I stopped myself, suddenly, as if stung by a bee. I didn’t want to bring his attention to that place. But he didn’t seem that interested, just answered politely, focus on a bush of white roses blossoming in front of him.  
“The ruin? You mean where the chapel used to be?”  
“Yes. Mike and I went there the other day. You met us afterwards, warned me of the consequences of plucking something so dangerous.”  
He turned his head to look at me and the sense of nervousness returned.  
“Yes, I remember,” he said.  
To take his focus away from me I pointed at the white rose bush.  
“What’s that one called?”  
He looked where I was pointing and smiled slightly.  
“Vitality. It’s beautiful isn’t it?”  
I nodded.  
“Do you often go there, to the ruins? Isn’t it rather far away and a bit bleak?” he asked.  
“We only went once. We were out looking for poachers.”  
“Real ones?”  
“No, just pretend.”  
“That also sounds a lot like Sherlock. He’s always been looking for danger and mystery, everywhere he could find it. He’s convinced the village is half-full of criminal intent, used to go there sometimes to “investigate” as he put it. Still does I think. Don’t know where he got that interest from, I blame all the books and magazines he’s reading. I’ve told Gregory to stop bringing them, but my brother seems to have found another source of information.”  
I could feel him looking at me and prayed that he couldn’t sense my nervousness. I decided that it would be better not to answer him, unsure as I was of what he was after.  
“Funny that you should ask about this rose bush in particular. It was planted by our mother when Sherlock was born. It’s reminiscent of him, don’t you think? All pure and pale but thorny and likely to draw blood if trying to pluck it. “  
When I remained quiet he sighed.  
“You’re very fond of him. Very kind of you to run his errands too. Have you been delivering notes to Mr Leigh many times?  
“No. Just once or twice. It’s no bother.”  
“But you didn’t want to do it today.”  
I blinked, unsure at first how to continue.  
“I could have done it, we were just teasing each other,” I finally concluded.  
“Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped you? You like doing chores for my brother?”  
“I don’t look at them as chores exactly. I just deliver some letters, it’s no bother.”  
And here everything started to slide downhill.  
“But it’s quite a way over there, to the village” Mycroft insisted. “Which way do you usually take?”  
As I hadn’t the slightest idea were Mr Leigh lived my mind froze. The time stopped in what felt like an eternity, it was just him and me staring at each other, him expectantly, me with panic rising in my chest.  
“I don’t really remember…”  
“You don’t remember? But you have been there several times the last two weeks. Surely you don’t get lost every time?”  
I didn’t answer. I felt caught out and dread was beginning to creep up my spine. He just kept staring at me and I looked down at my shoes.  
“You know what,” he suddenly said, breaking our silence, “I think that letter should be delivered. Sherlock is quite right, Mr Leigh’s a lonely man and he spent a good amount of time with my brother teaching him the violin. It’s only fair that he should somehow be repaid in kindness.”  
I looked up from my shoes and met his eyes in panic. He was serious now.  
“I’ll call for the gardener, he can send it with one of the boys that help him with the upkeep.”  
“It’s to much bother, don’t trouble yourself. It’s not that important,” I tried but he shook his head.  
“Oh, but it’s no trouble and I’m sure Mr Leigh would like to feel prepared if Sherlock’s going to visit him this afternoon. Old people are like that, they don’t like surprises. Stanton!”  
An old man, standing further away, plucking weeds from the stone steps leading up to the house, rose and came over to us.  
“Please, Mycroft. There really is no need. I’ll take it to him.”  
“But you just said you couldn’t remember the way?”  
His voice was steely now and I gulped. It felt like walking over a morass, wherever I stepped the ground under me gave way and I sank deeper down.  
The man called Stanton arrived and Mycroft addressed him without breaking eye contact with me.  
“We have a letter that is to be delivered to Mr Leigh in the village. “  
“Yes, sir.”  
He extended his hand and Mycroft nodded at me.  
“John here has it.”  
I put my hands down my pocket where I had stuffed the note. I could feel It touching my fingertips but pretended not to feel it. I made a show of rummaging through my pockets and then let my hands come up empty.  
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “I seem to have lost it.”  
But Mycroft was having none of that.  
“Look again,” he ordered, and I put my hands inside my pockets again, making sure not to touch the paper so it would rustle. I shook my head and Mycroft sighed.  
“Well then. Stanton, send one of your boys to Mr Leigh and inform him that Master Sherlock is coming for a visit this afternoon. After our picnic.”  
Stanton lifted his cap in acknowledgement and went. I felt a strong urge to follow him but couldn’t of course. Instead I just stood there, next to Mycroft, staring at the white roses in front of me. Mortified.  
When none of us said anything, I couldn’t help turning my head, looking at the back of Stanton as he was disappearing up the stairs.  
“Changed you’re mind about the letter?” Mycroft asked sarcastically, and I stoically returned to stare at the roses again.  
I could feel him staring at me in what felt like an eternity.  
“Take you hands out of your pocket. Hasn’t anyone taught you that it looks sloppy to stand with your hands in your pocket?”  
Without answering I did as I was told. I felt a mix of anger and humiliation. I just wanted to leave now but he wasn’t finished with me yet.  
“I could order you to empty your pockets, you know,” he said, and my hand immediately flew down my sides to protect them. “But I’m not going to do that. It would be utterly rude of me and I’m a strong believer in good manners. But I’m going to ask this of you. You’ve been delivering letters for Sherlock on several occasions and I think we can agree that the recipient wasn’t Mr Leigh. So the question is, where were you delivering them?”  
I opened my mouth, but no words came. My mind was completely blank, and I truly felt that the game was up now. There was no way out of this and I had no idea of what to say. I closed my mouth again and he raised his eyebrows, incredulously. So I opened my mouth again to speak when a loud thunder broke the silence and the heaven opened up to send down a lightning. Seconds after heavy raindrops started to fall and with a last look at Mycroft’s stony face I ran toward the house to take shelter. I didn’t stop to see if he was following me, I just kept running until I finally reached our room. I threw the door open and ran inside, startling Mike who was sitting on the bed with a book in his lap and threw myself down next to him to catch my breath. Outside the rain was pouring down heavily now.  
So far this was not a proving to be a great birthday.


	14. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of John's birthday have tragic consequences.

I remained in our room over lunch, claiming to have a headache. The rain kept pouring down but I just sat by the window, looking out. I happened to spot Sherlock for a moment during that time. He was wandering the lawn restlessly, then seemed to come to a decision and started off. I didn’t feel anything, I knew that my curse would have to take care of everything from now on, I couldn’t do anything more myself.  
Mike came and collected me at a quarter to six. They we’re all gathered in the salon, except for Sherlock and Mycroft. Even Magnussen was there. He was actually the first one to get up and greet me when we came in. He stood from his place on the sofa and came forward.  
“The birthday boy! Congratulations!”  
The others chimed in and one of the servants came in, carrying a huge cake with 14 candles, not yet alight.  
I nervously sat down between Gregory and Anthea, glancing at the cake that was a delicious looking piece made of chocolate with raspberries on top.  
But my real nervousness was focused on the absence of the two Holmes brothers, specifically Mycroft. I had half expected him to come knocking on my door, but he never came and without facing him I didn’t know where the land lay between us.  
I didn’t need to ponder that question for long, because he entered the room, right after our arrival.  
To my huge surprise he was his cordial self again, not a word was breathed of our encounter earlier that day, he just sat down in front of me and nodded toward the cake.  
“I hope it will be to your liking. We never did have that conversation about your preferences and taste, but the cook assured me that chocolate is something everyone loves.”  
He didn’t really smile when he talked to me, but he didn’t seem strained either. What I did notice was that when he sat down his hands were shaking slightly, as if nervous.  
“Shall we light the candles?” Philip asked but Mycroft shook his head.  
“Not yet. Sherlock wanted to be the first to give John his gift and congratulate him. We’ll wait a little while longer.”  
“But it’s past six now. Where is he?” Mike asked impatiently. I could see Magnussen look at Mycroft who for once didn’t meet his eyes.  
“He went to the village for a visit to Mr Leigh. He’ll arrive any minute now,” Mycroft declared stiffly, not taking his eyes off the cake.  
“Mr Leigh? Again? He went yesterday,” Mike complained, and Gregory joined in with surprise in his voice.  
“He’s been there quite a lot lately?”  
“Well Mr Leigh was one of the few teachers he ever could stand teaching him anything. He’s very fond of him,” Mycroft replied with a hollow tone.  
“I think it’s nice that he bothers to visit his old teacher that often, he is such a nice boy when he wants to be,” Anthea said, and the room went silent for a while, everyone contemplating if that was really true or not.  
We just sat there, like puppets, waiting for someone who obviously wasn’t coming and the clock on the mantelpiece made our waiting very obvious with its ticking.  
Mrs Vernet turned to Magnussen after a while and was the first to break the silence.  
“So, I hear that you are planning a ball here in August? Mycroft told me.”  
Magnussen who had been sitting silently, smoking a cigarette, nodded and a small grin opened up his features. For a second he looked genuinely happy.  
“Yes. I suppose there is no need to keep it a secret really, we just wanted this day to be about John and his birthday before announcing the news. But Sherlock accepted my proposal in marriage late last night and the ball is to celebrate our happy union.”  
I was shocked and everyone else around me, except Mycroft looked very surprised too.  
“But when did this happen? I thought you left rather early yesterday?” Anthea asked with confusion in her voice.  
“I did. But I returned later. I felt that I couldn’t wait any longer and Mycroft was kind enough to go get Sherlock and bring him to me while I waited in the orchard. And Sherlock made me very happy by accepting my proposal. We’re getting married next spring, when he’s 18.”  
The surprise seemed to seep out of the room, being replaced by congratulations and smiles.  
“Will you be living here then?” Mrs Vernet asked and I could see Mycroft for the first time raise his eyes from the cake and look at Magnussen.  
“It’s not decided yet, but probably. It’s Sherlock’s childhood home, I’m sure he would prefer to stay here.”  
I thought of Sherlock’s distaste of this place, his eagerness to leave the country side and I couldn’t help a shudder running through me. Now he was going to be trapped here forever.  
“Are you cold, John?” Anthea said, looking concerned and the attention in the room turned to me.  
“Yes, it is a rather harsh weather today, it hasn’t stopped raining for hours,” Mr Vernet said and agreements were murmured around the table.  
“Maybe that is what’s taking Sherlock so long? He might be caught somewhere because of the weather, poor thing.” The last thing was uttered by Mrs Vernet and I couldn’t help shooting her a skeptical look, but Mycroft started to life and nodded.  
“Quite right, that must be it. I’ll send the carriage to fetch him from Mr Leigh’s house.”  
He rang for the butler and gave orders to send the carriage to the village.  
The clock on the mantlepiece was now a quarter to seven and the cake was beginning to look a bit sad and saggy.  
“I’ll say we better get started with this celebration. Sherlock can join us when he get’s here. The most important person is here after all,” Gregory said, and Philip rose from his seat to deliver me a small envelope.  
“Here you are, John. I think it turned out rather nice.”  
Inside the envelope was a photograph. It was the one taken by Philip one afternoon, right after Mike fell ill, and showed me and Sherlock in front of the fountain. I remembered his hand clutching mine for a second with a note to Victor passing between us but there was no sign of that in the picture, it was probably already in my hand by the time Philip clicked the shutter. Sherlock looked beautiful but haughty and very dramatic with his windswept curls and high cheekbones, like I imagined Heathcliff from Wuthering heights or something similar. I looked misplaced in the picture.  
I stared at it.  
“Do you like it?” Philip asked with worry in his voice when I didn’t say anything.  
“Yes. It’s beautiful,” I finally managed to croak. I couldn’t put my finger on why the picture affected me so. Maybe it was a reminder of simpler times or the beginning of when everything started to go downhill. I had just started delivering messages but was still innocently unaware of their content. I was just enjoying doing favors for Sherlock back then. Looking at him standing there, in front of the fountain, black hair, dark hooded eyes and lush lips, I felt like I had been under a spell. Maybe I still was but the effect had begun to go sour.  
Magnussen leaned forward, and admiration shone in his eyes.  
“Very beautiful indeed. You’ve really brought out the essence of Sherlock in that picture, Philip. And you look very dashing as well, John, of course.”  
I didn’t. I looked plain. Like I should have been cut out of the picture all together. I wondered how Victor would have fared next to Sherlock instead.  
I murmured my thanks to Philip and put the photograph back into the envelope.  
“I have a little something for you as well,” Magnussen said, walking over to a small table where a strangely shaped leather case was placed.  
“Mind you, this is not a toy. You can’t have it before you’ve proven that you can handle it.”  
He opened the leather case and carefully pulled out a revolver. My eyes widened at the sight of it and the rest of the room became quiet.  
“My father gave me my first gun when I was about your age and taught me how to use it. I have seldom had any use of that knowledge, but the real talent is to be able to know when a gun is useful. The night I was attacked in Cape town I would have been dead if I hadn’t known how to use a weapon. I got a scar from the experience, but my attacker died. Sometimes it’s the difference between life and death.”  
“Isn’t he a bit young?” Mrs Vernet asked but Magnussen ignored her, continuing to address me.  
“Come by Beecham cottage tomorrow and we can do some target practice. I’m told you live with only a mother and a sister?”  
“Yes, my father is dead.”  
“This is something a father should teach his son, but no worry. I’ll train your for as long as you are here. If you prove to me that you can handle a weapon you can bring this with you home when you leave. See it as a gift with conditions.”  
I looked at the revolver gleaming in hid hand, wanting to reach out to touch it but he put it inside the leather case again and the fastened the case to his belt, inside his jacket.  
“I do this because you’ve proven to be a great friend to Sherlock and he in turn is very dear to me. This gift comes with responsibility. Like I would do anything to protect him and everything else that I own, you will do the same one day.”  
If the choice of words was disturbing, referring to Sherlock as his property, no one commented on that fact, but the atmosphere became notably tense.  
To lighten the mood a bit Gregory suggested that the candles should be lit and when the clock struck seven Mycroft actually agreed.  
Just as I leaned forward to blow I saw the butler reappear by the door. All the candles went out in one go and the others applauded my stamina while the butler approached Mycroft.  
“I’m sorry, Sir. Master Sherlock was not at Mr Leigh’s and had in fact not been there at all today.”  
A surprised murmur arose from the others in the room and even I and Mycroft managed to look taken aback. Maybe we both had somehow convinced ourselves that he actually was planning to go to Mr Leigh, maybe we had just buried the truth so deep that it shook us both when it was brought out to the daylight. Not that Mycroft really knew everything. He might suspect but he didn’t have any facts. And that was probably what finally drove him over the edge.  
He sat silently for a while. The others talked about where Sherlock could be, but no one came even close to the truth, they thought about scenarios where he had forgotten the time or maybe had taken shelter somewhere from the rain. Gregory suggested we should start with the cake while we waited, and we did, but Mycroft just sat there, staring at his hands. Until he suddenly rose very quickly, making the cup in front of him fall over. Luckily it was empty, and no one paid it any attention, we all just stared at him.  
“No. I think we have waited long enough. We’re going to get him.”  
He reached over and grabbed my arm firmly, dragging me up from my seat.  
“Mycroft!” Anthea exclaimed, and the others looked shocked too by his actions.  
“John’s coming with me. He knows where Sherlock is.”  
And he dragged me by the arm, out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house. We passed my new bicycle on the way and I felt a pang of regret that I would probably never be able to ride it. Whatever happened tonight it would most likely be my last day here.  
The rain was falling heavily over us, but he paid that no heed. Just kept dragging me until we reached the gates.  
“Where to?” he yelled and although I wasn’t sure, I turned towards the chapel ruins. They could just as easily have been at Armitage farm or somewhere totally unbeknownst to me, but my gut feeling told me that the ruins would be the right place.  
Mycroft moved swiftly, much more so than I would have imagined considering his very sedentary lifestyle and plumpness and he was also surprisingly strong. His grip around my arm felt like a vice, there was no escaping him.  
As we finally approached the ruins we could already see light shining through one of the windows inside the chapel. Victor had probably brought a lantern with him because of the darkness caused by the stormy weather.  
Mycroft kept rushing forward, like a bull in rage, dragging me behind him like a tail. I felt terrified and tried to dig my heels into the ground as we approached but he refused to stop.  
“What are you going to do?!” I yelled over the howling wind, but he didn’t answer me.  
When we arrived, he just tore the old wooden door open and stopped like struck by lightning.  
They were right in the middle of what once must have been the sacristy. It was damp and murky inside but the light from the lantern that was placed on the ground showed the couple inside very clearly, embracing, naked and totally unaware of our presence. Victor was kissing Sherlock’s neck while his hand was exploring his naked skin and both had their eyes closed.  
It was the first time I had ever seen two people having sex and at first I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was seeing, even stifling the impulse to laugh out loud. But what happened next slapped me right out of that idea.  
Mycroft screamed. Not a normal human scream but something otherworldly.  
He sounded like a wounded animal possessed and both me and the couple inside looked at him with fear in our eyes. The second after he started to hit me, his fists raining down on me hard, while he continued to scream.  
“You knew! You knew this all the time but didn’t tell!”  
I could hear Sherlock yell his brother’s name in the background but all I saw was Mycroft’s angry eyes as I covered my arms over my body to shield myself from him. It felt like it continued for an eternity but in reality, it was probably just a few seconds, Mycroft releasing all his furious rage over me.  
Then suddenly both Mycroft and I were pushed to the side.  
I fell to the ground outside but caught a glimpse of a familiar figure disappearing inside. Mycroft had also stumbled but forward so his line of sight was still on what happened in the chapel.  
The figure who had pushed us both aside was Magnussen.  
The next thing I heard was a loud voice yelling “No!” and a gunshot echoing around us.  
After that it was all a blur and I only remembered fragments of it afterwards. Sherlock who was brought out screaming by Mycroft. Victor Trevor lying in a pool of blood. Magnussen who just stood there, staring emotionlessly at the body at his feet. He had shot him straight through the heart, Victor must have died immediately, both his eyes and his mouth still open, as if in surprise.

I couldn’t manage to leave until the police finally came.  
The next morning I left Donnithorpe and the only person following me to the station, sending me off, was Gregory. As the train left the station I closed my eyes and wished to never return here again. I had gotten my wish. Sherlock and Victor were truly broken up now. But not the way I had imagined it. Victor would never ever again have anything that I desired.


	15. Moving on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time moves on and John grows up

After the events at Donnithorpe I went back home to spend the rest of the holiday with my family while Mike was taken care of by The Vernets. When school began I didn’t spend that much time with Mike anymore.  
It wasn’t for any particular reason, but he was a reminder of the horrible events and I didn’t want to think about the people at Donnithorpe anymore and it seemed as Mike was of the same opinion as he didn’t try to seek me out either.   
I felt guilty over what had happened despite the fact that this outcome had never been my intention. I had just wanted for Victor and Sherlock to break up but now Victor was dead. What had happened to Sherlock I didn’t even want to think about, so I suppressed my memories the best way I could and refused to even talk about it with my mother afterwards. She read what the papers wrote and so did many at school but when I never answered any questions people soon grew bored of asking me.  
The years went, and I put my efforts into studying hard and making the best of my scholarship, so I finally could apply to medical school.   
My mother died when I was 19 and I tried living with my sister for a while, but she had dreams and aspirations of her own and soon left for France to seek out new adventures. There was probably some sort of romantic entanglement involved but I never asked, having had enough of other people’s love lives and secrets to last me a lifetime. In fact, we didn’t talk that much about anything and when se left I wasn’t sorry to see her go. We had grown apart over the years and she probably felt that her sweet, innocent little brother had disappeared entirely after the events at Donnithorpe as I closed in on myself och put all my focus on school.  
One day, as I was sitting in my room at university, taking a break from studying, there was a knock on the door. When I opened the door, my eyes widened in surprise.   
It was Gregory Lestrade.  
He was visiting a nephew who happened to share the same classes as myself.  
“John Watson is a rather common name, but I thought I would take a chance, see if it was you.”  
Six years had passed since last seeing him and while that isn’t really a long time in reality, it had changed us both profoundly. I was a man now, had grown taller and put on some muscle to my body, the innocence in my features was gone too, I looked older than my actual years. The boy in me was gone and I never wanted to think about him again. He had been stupid and gullible and insecure, I was none of those things anymore. In fact, I was more short-tempered these days, sure of myself and my capabilities but suffered slightly from trust issues. I was still kind to people, but I had my guard up at all times.   
He had grey streaks in his hair, was married now and had a few lines around the eyes that hadn’t been there before. I never contemplated his age when I was 14, he was just one of the adults, so it was difficult to say if time had been cruel to him or if he actually was older than I remembered him to be back then.  
He didn’t stay long, he had to get back to his wife in London, but it was surprisingly nice seeing him nonetheless and it didn’t set in motion the usual feeling of unease that normally happened when I thought about that summer in 1900.   
We didn’t really talk about the events. I had read the papers of course, a little bit, so I knew the gist of it.   
Charles Magnussen had been sentenced to a lifetime in jail. As he was rich and influential and the fact that his actions were described as a crime of passion, he escaped the gallows but later died in prison after serving just two years. I saw the headlines when it happened but didn’t bother to read any further. The family of Victor Trevor had caused a bit of a ruckus at the time of the sentencing, but it had soon quieted down again. They were not prominent people and had no real power to change anything.   
He had shot Victor with the revolver he had initially given me as a birthday gift and at the beginning my head used to spin around that particular fact. There were so many coincidences that led up to the events that played out and many details could have changed the whole outcome if altered just a little bit. If I hadn’t helped delivering the letters, if it hadn’t been my birthday, if I hadn’t led Mycroft to the chapel, if Magnussen hadn’t put the leather case with the revolver in his belt but left it on the table instead or given it to me. If Sherlock hadn’t forgotten the time. If I hadn’t performed that stupid curse. So many ifs. It was nauseating to think about and I was probably not the only one who thought about those ifs. Mycroft and Sherlock both undoubtedly must have wished they had done things differently.   
The papers had a heyday with Sherlock of course.   
He was beautiful, underage and morally corrupt as they put it. The family’s economical scandal was brought up again and the details were beyond salacious, as well as his expulsion from school, but I stopped reading about them very soon. There was a picture of him, all elegant but arrogant looking, dark hair and eyes, prominent cheekbones and his mouth in a serious pout, that the papers loved to use when writing about him, and the first time I saw it I tore the paper to shreds. It became better eventually but I stopped reading about it after the first few days.   
Gregory asked me a little about how the studies were going, where I wanted to work when I finished and so forth, being all kinds of nice and polite, just as I remembered him being. I didn’t really understand why he had sought me out but maybe it was just common courtesy?  
My intentions were to not say anything about Donnithorpe but as he was about to leave I couldn’t help myself and stopped him by putting my hand on his arm.   
“Did you ever return to Donnithorpe? Afterwards?”  
If he was surprised by my question he didn’t show it. He just shook his head.   
“No. The place was deserted for a while and eventually sold by Mr Magnussen’s solicitors, right after he was sentenced. I don’t know the people who live there now but I heard something about them being from France. No connections to the predecessors.”   
I hesitated a second but then dared to venture the question that, despite my intentions of burying everything about both the place and specifically the people who used to live there, I had always had as a nagging reminder in the back of my head.  
“What happened to Sherlock and Mycroft?”  
Sherlock was the first person I ever loved and although it had started off as a silly schoolboy crush, the events that had taken place that summer had showed me the devastating consequences love could have on people and I hadn’t opened up my heart to anyone after that, determined to not risk falling pray to such strong feelings ever again. It had hurt me profoundly and had showed me what love could cause. It was not worth the pain, so I had shut all feelings off, concentrating on my studies instead. But of course, my mind wandered sometimes. When I was off guard, on account of exhaustion or when drunk, I could still see his face, his beautiful features and the black curls billowing in the summer breeze. Those mesmerizing eyes.   
I wondered sometimes if his beauty was all that had captivated me. If I had fallen under his spell by the way he looked, but when really contemplating the matter I found that I had been fascinated by him as a person too. He was reckless, thrived in drama and danger, but so did I. He made my body surge with adrenalin when being with him and I truly enjoyed his company even if he had infuriated me on several occasions with his selfishness. I found that I missed that sometimes, the way he made me feel. But that feeling had caused me too much pain and I hastily tampered down any lingering reminiscences I had about him.   
In the beginning, right after leaving Donnithorpe, I had terrible nightmares, seeing Victor Trevor’s bloodied body and Mycroft who was dragging a screaming Sherlock away, Magnussen’s cold, emotionless face and those pictures always came to surface after a while, even when just thinking about Sherlock and the way he looked before everything horrible happened. So his face eventually became associated with the other terrible memories that I had tried hard to erase.   
But standing here with Gregory, I couldn’t let the opportunity to find out what happened afterwards slip away.   
He sighed and turned his eyes away for a second, as if contemplating what to say and my heart sank because that couldn’t be good. Then he braced himself and cleared his throat before answering.   
“Well, they moved to London for a short while. After the trial Mycroft got employed as an advisor of sorts, don’t really know in what capacity exactly but he evidently knew how to pull some strings and made that happen, so he still lives there. I haven’t met him since the trial, but I hear that he is doing alright. Considering the circumstances. People don’t forget but they move on and new scandals takes the focus away eventually. Their parents were prominent people once, so he undoubtedly had some connections somewhere and he always was very clever, the born strategist. He would probably be the last man standing after a hurricane. “  
He smiled slightly when talking about Mycroft but then became quiet again.   
“And Sherlock?” I finally offered when he continued to stay silent.  
Sherlock was 23 now and if we were ever to meet again we were both adults now. Equal. No stupid schoolboy crushes anymore. But the idea of bumping into him seemed beyond unthinkable, I wouldn’t risk something like that happening, so I stayed far away from both London and Norfolk.  
Gregory looked pained when he finally continued.  
“Sherlock disappeared right before Magnussen was sentenced. According to a mutual acquaintance he just left the flat he was sharing with Mycroft and was gone. From one day to the next, as if falling of the face of the earth. I have heard rumors that he succumbed to substance abuse after Victor Trevor died, but I don’t know for certain. You know how it is, people talk, and some say that they saw him entering opium dens by the docks, but I couldn’t tell you if it’s really true.”  
To my surprise I managed to feel close to nothing by the mention of this. Everything inside me was closed and distant from any emotions, had been for years. It was some sort of survival mode.  
“I see,” was all I managed to say.  
After a moment of silence, probably waiting for me to say something else, he finally concluded that I had no further comment and wrapped up his visit by shaking my hand and wishing me luck with my studies.  
That was the final incident that took me back down memory lane. I dreamt of Sherlock that night, but it soon turned ugly, with images of Victor Trevor’s lifeless eyes staring at me and Sherlock surrounded by lingering smoke from an opium pipe, grinning miserably at me. I woke up soaking wet and cold from sweat and refused to sleep any more that night. But it only happened once and I neither dreamt nor thought about him again after that.  
The years came and went.  
I became a doctor and left Britain soon after. I had no place to call a home and I had never seen the world, so I travelled to see where life would take me.   
As a doctor it was easy to find work, people always needed doctors wherever I went, so I travelled through Europe and finally ended up crossing the Mediterranean and setting foot in Africa.   
The Boer war was long over and done with by now, but the continent was still in an unstable state, conflicts flaring up all over the place, making it a fascinating but sometimes dangerous place to live in. But that meant nothing to me.  
I was rootless and restless, seeking adventures where I could find them and sometimes taking ill-considered risks as I really didn’t have much to lose. I ventured further and further in to the African depths, putting as much distance between myself and England as I possibly could.   
I aided people in local wars all over the continent with my medical expertise and I seldom met any British citizens, so I eventually became known simply as The White doctor och The Doctor. It didn’t really matter where I came from and that was a liberating feeling after growing up aware of both my poor background and the sense of not belonging anywhere. Here I was simply The Doctor and I was appreciated for my talents. Where I came from or who I was didn’t matter here.   
When I was 23 I was shot in the shoulder by a drunk Dutchman in a bar, quite incidentally and ended up in a hospital in Dar es Salaam. They tried to contact my sister and that was how I found out that she had returned to England the year before but had died soon after. As I was badly hurt in the shoulder and exhausted from my never-ending travels the last couple of years I returned to England a week before my 24th birthday.  
It was a hot British summer, reminiscent of the one that occurred in 1900, but after my life abroad in much warmer climates I wasn’t bothered by it.   
My sister had lived in a flat in the outskirts of London, getting by as a seamstress. The place was small and in a poor state and by the number of empty bottles lying around it was easy to conclude that she had fallen heavily into drinking. One of the neighbors told me that she had seemed lonely and mostly kept to herself and it was a sad reflection to make but too much time had passed for me to truly feel any sorrow. I visited the place and collected some memorabilia before returning to an old friend from University who lived in the center of London and graciously had provided me with a bed to sleep in for the rest of the week as I didn’t have much money and nowhere to stay otherwise.   
I didn’t know what to do with my life now that I had finally stopped rushing through my days and, at the moment, a return to Africa didn’t seem that tempting. Besides, I didn’t have any money to finance such a trip either.  
My friend suggested that I could settle down in London, look for work at one of the greater hospitals when my health had returned sufficiently, and I nodded in agreement, not wanting to reveal that I possibly couldn’t afford to go unemployed that long and certainly didn’t have any funds to find a place in the greater London area. It was still ingrained in my backbone to never expose my weaknesses.  
The next day I went for a walk as I had nothing better to do and that was how I spent the next couple of days, walking the streets of London, passing time while waiting for an idea that would help me out of my predicament.   
On the day of my 24th birthday I left my friend’s house with my small suitcase after thanking him for his hospitality and started to walk, like I had done all the other days.   
Finally, I ended up in Regent’s park. As my shoulder had started to hurt I sat down on a bench close to the entrance. From where I was sitting I could see the crowds of people and horse carriages among the increasing number of motor cars of Marylebone Street outside the gates and I wondered for the hundredth time if there was a place for me in this city somewhere. London didn’t scare me anymore, as it had before I left England. The city had a pulse that appealed to me and it felt like a new start to be here, anonymous among its myriads of different kinds of people, all drawn here for one reason or the other. It was somehow soothing to just sit there and observe the city life happening around me, not forced to participate, just content with being there.  
The sun was burning down on me and I took my jacket off, while pondering the fact that I had nowhere to stay when the evening came. It was both a slightly exciting but also a terrifying notion and I should really put my efforts in to working out that problem instead of just sitting there, observing my surroundings.  
That’s when I suddenly saw him.  
A tall willowy man with black curls and sharp features was heading from the entrance of the park on one of the paths leading in my direction.


	16. What now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock for the first time in ten years

I jolted at the sight of him, at first not believing my eyes.  
I hadn’t seen him in ten years and my mind had played so many tricks on me over the years that I first thought it was a hallucination. He looked more or less the same as he did when I last saw him, maybe a little more mature and actually dressed properly, in a long coat despite the heat and as I slowly came over the initial shock I jumped out of my seat and rose to a standing position, without a rational thought in my mind, just pure excitement at seeing him again.  
As I had just been a boy when he last had seen me he didn’t recognize me of course. I had grown, become even more muscled over the years than when Gregory Lestrade saw me, not being as tall as I had hoped but still considerably taller than when I was 14. I had a hint of a stubble as I had grown accustomed to the habit of not shaving every day while I worked in Africa and my features where broader now and tanned. My hair was lighter too, after being exposed to the sun, it had the color of sand where it had before been browner. I’m not sure even my sister would have recognized me after all the years apart.  
I could see him observing my movements as I rose so hastily from the bench and those mercurial eyes that I remembered so vividly gave me a quick analyzing glance while continuing his hasty pace in my direction. I saw immediately that he didn’t recognize me but that a glint of curiosity swept over his features before disappearing again, probably due to my behavior.  
As he was about to pass me I said his name and he froze in his tracks, slowly turning around to face me, now suddenly suspicion in his eyes.  
“Yes?” he said, and a jolt of electricity rushed through my body at the sound of that familiar purr. How I had missed that voice! I hadn’t even realized that I had missed it until I was confronted with it once again.  
“It’s me. John.”  
I was about to add my surname as a way of clarification but the look in is eyes told me that he immediately understood who I was.  
He looked shocked for a moment, unsure of what to say. At that moment he looked like his 17-year old self again, untainted by life’s darker sides, innocent almost, just pure surprise in his features. He hadn’t been innocent of course, but maybe possibly a bit naïve, thinking that everything would work out fine. And it had, for a little while, until everything blew up in his face.  
As I myself was an adult now I could see that it had all been too much for a teenager to handle, especially one like him, who lived in a sort of pretend gilded cage with his very controlling brother, the shadow of legacy hanging over him and the threat to be married of to a man 30 years older with the intention to look at him like a possession and not a person. No wonder temptation won when he met Victor Trevor who offered him promises of another life, far away from Norfolk.  
When he just kept looking at me, as if paralyzed by shock, I stepped forward instead, grabbed him by the hand and shook it, and then did something I hadn’t done for years, to anyone. It was a spur of the moment type of thing and it was almost like not being able to hold back when I drew him towards me and pressed him to my chess in a big hug. I felt him tense up at first, probably still in shock at seeing me and possibly also by the hug. But then he relaxed and put his own arms around me, responding.  
“Well…,” he said as we finally released our mutual embrace. “Never thought I would bump in to you ever again. Mike Stamford’s little magician friend.”  
I rose my eyebrows in surprise. That part about me being a magician had been such a small detail and it had been 10 years since we last had seen each other, I wasn’t sure he would remember that much about me, even less something as insignificant as that.  
“We found your cards after you left. That’s how I remember,” he explained. “Never saw you perform a trick though. Unless you did them in secret, when no one saw.”  
For a second I wondered if he knew about the spell, if I had left any incriminating evidence behind and my stomach plummeted, but when I looked in to his eyes I saw mirth in them. He was only joking.  
“I bet you did,” he continued. “You always seemed to be carrying more knowledge than you let on, probably had us all under a spell or two that summer. And that weather of course, it must have been your doing, right? Never had a heatwave like it ever again.”  
It sounded a bit ominous and considering the events, it had a fatality to it but there was merriment in his voice, so it was probably just a joke. He had always had that type of dry humor.  
“Do you still do any magic spells?”  
I shook my head and smiled.  
“No. I grew up.”  
“How dull!”  
He returned my smile and a warmth spread through my chest at the sight of it. It had been too long.  
It could have ended there. He was obviously on his way somewhere and we didn’t really know each other anymore, there was nothing to keep this meeting from extending any further. Ant yet there was.  
I had spent that summer ten years ago loving him with all my heart the way only a person who experiences the first love of his life can, indulging in but also suffering from every new feeling he invoked in me and I had after leaving Donnithorpe never opened up my heart to anyone again. I had experience relationships akin to love but never quite the true thing and I never stayed with anyone for long, afraid to be trapped or starting to develop stronger feelings for anyone. Surprisingly, my heart still contained fragments of my devotion to Sherlock, however deeply hidden, and at the sight of him now, memories and old sentiments resurfaced.  
So instead of letting him disappear again, possibly forever this time, I latched on to him, like a I had when I was 14, determined to not let go this time if I got the chance to know him once more.  
So when he started to wind up the conversation, ready to be on his way, I grabbed my suitcase and simply went with him. If he found it strange he didn’t say anything about it and we just continued to talk while walking.  
I told him about my travels, about my work as a doctor, a little about my family and everything that he had never really known about me before. And he listened and asked some questions but mainly remained quiet. He didn’t say anything about himself, just heard what I had to say, nodded and continued to walk.  
As we finally stopped we had crossed the park and continued a couple of streets further along and now found ourselves in front of a brown house in a very quiet and empty neighborhood. I looked around us and then at him. He looked at me and I rose my eyebrows in question.  
“So?” I said when he didn’t further explain why we had stopped.  
“Well…” he started and continued to look at me as if analyzing my person, suddenly hesitant. Curiosity started to rise inside me. As he finally spoke it became even more intriguing.  
“It’s not the first favor I ever asked of you and feel free to walk away now and forget everything if you want…”  
“Alright…?”  
“But I’m going to attempt a break in through that door…”  
“What?!”  
“…and would appreciate a look-out if someone was to approach this house while I’m in it?”  
“But why on earth are you going to do that?”  
“I can’t explain that right now. I don’t have much time and I’m going to do it even if you don’t agree to help me. Don’t feel forced to say yes. If it would feel better for you, feel free to just walk away and forget that I even said anything.”  
After a second of confusion and a million thoughts whirling inside my head I heard myself agreeing to do it. I was quite shocked by my own behavior but if it was one thing that a life of travelling had thought me it was to adjust after the circumstances and not waste time overthinking things, to feel secure enough to trust your own instincts and indulge in curiosity. So I stayed and saw him walk up to the door, fiddle with something, probably the lock, before getting the door to open and disappearing inside.  
He only stayed inside for ten minutes, then left as discreetly as he had entered and nodded to me to follow him.  
As we walked away from the area, towards Regents park again, I couldn’t help laughing as the rush of adrenalin surged through me combined with relief at not getting caught.  
“What the hell was that all about? Are you a burglar now? Was that why you read all those crime novels back then, to learn the trick of the trade?”  
I said it half-jokingly, but I was still taken with what we had just done. My head was swimming with different scenarios of why he had done what he just did.  
“No. The contrary in fact. I work on the opposite side of the burglar.”  
“What? As a member of the police?”  
“Pft! No.”  
He looked affronted at the notion.  
“As something quite unique. The only one in the world in fact. I’m a consulting detective. I solve crimes the police are unable to solve or crimes that never even get as far as to Scotland Yard. The unusual crimes, the so called “unsolvable” ones. They aren’t of course, I just have a different approach to them than the police have. I am better.”  
As we continued our walk back the same way we came from, he told me about what it was that he did. That he had clients come to him with what he called “their problems” and he judged if they were worth the effort of taking them on. Small, boring cases he didn’t bother with or he could easily solve them by just listening, but the bigger ones, the really intriguing ones, it was those that he craved for. The house he had broken in to belonged to a suspected jewel thief and he had needed to investigate while the suspect wasn’t at home to gather further evidence to his theory.  
My eyes grew larger and my mind went spinning the longer he went on about what it was that he did, and I didn’t even notice when he once again stopped in front of a house, this time on a more populated street, with a brass knocker and the distinct number of 221 B on the door.  
“So why are we stopping here? Another break-in?”  
I looked around. This street was distinctly busier than the other one we had been to earlier. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, when committing a break in. Maybe we wouldn’t stick out that much in the crowd? But his answer was not what I had expected  
“No. I live here.”  
“Oh.”  
It was like waking from a dream that had gone on a little too long and suddenly be woken up rather abruptly. But as I prepared mentally for our meeting to finally come to an end he just jumped up the small steps, opened the door and walked inside, leaving the front door open for me to follow him.  
He didn’t stop talking for a whole hour about the jewel thief, his client who was some sort of illustrious foreigner and his methods for tracking the thief to the particular house he had broken into earlier. As he finally came to the end of a very long sentence that seemed to had been delivered with even a pause to breathe, I was already seated in a very comfortable but somewhat untidy living room with a cup of tea that an elderly lady had brought me before quietly disappearing down the stairs again. She seemed somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger to what it was that made it so.  
“So. How do you like it?” he asked after seating himself in the armchair opposite mine, taking a sip from his own cup of tea.  
I looked at him with confusion, waiting for an elaboration that didn’t come.  
“I’m sorry. About what exactly?”  
“About the place of course,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing, but it only furthered my confusion. I looked around as if expecting to see something that could explain what he meant but found nothing. It was just a living room, certainly a bit untidy and very reminiscent of his room at Donnithorpe with lots of knickknacks everywhere. Even the skull was there, residing on the mantlepiece. In the corner he had a desk with various chemical instruments and a Bunsen burner so his promise to himself about having his own laboratory had apparently come true. It was a cozy if somewhat cluttered room, but it gave no clues to what he was referring to.  
“What do you mean?” I said finally, and he sighed, impatiently. For some reason it was as if all the time that had passed hadn’t really happened when it came to the way we spoke to each other, he had the same slightly arrogant tone that he had always had. It was all meant in kindness, but he had a tendency to be slightly impatient when people didn’t keep up with his thought process.  
“You’re obviously homeless and I have a spare bedroom. In fact, you would be doing me a favor. The rent, even if very fair, is rather steep for my purse and I have been entertaining the idea of a flatmate but haven’t gotten around to it yet.”  
“What do you mean “obviously homeless”?” I exclaimed, suddenly aware that he had pinpointed my predicament and known the whole time without addressing it. I suddenly felt very exposed. What else had he observed without my knowledge?  
“As you told me, you’re recently returned from Africa where you were wounded. Although you didn’t go into any details the stiffness of your right arm and shoulder tells me that is where the wound is located and that also means that you’re, at the moment, incapable of performing your medical duties. That suitcase you’re carrying around is too big and heavy to just be your medicine bag so it must contain something else, like clothes and a book and some memorabilia. At the same time, it is only just a suitcase. Who carries around a suitcase with clothes and other small artifacts if not out of necessity? You don’t have anywhere else to keep your belongings at the moment so you have to carry them with you. And why is it that you don’t have anywhere else to put your things? Because you are, at the moment, homeless. You can’t earn any money as long as you can’t work and therefor can’t afford to neither buy a place or rent something. You’re hardly the only one in that predicament in this town. Like I said: obvious.”  
He had delivered his speech at top speed, like a lecture and when putting it like that I had to agree, it was obvious. I just hadn’t thought about how it looked, carrying my suitcase around everywhere.  
“Don’t worry. Most people don’t observe these things and you look very put together still, probably because of the fact that you had somewhere to stay until recently. Not a friend or you would have told them about your situation, so more likely an acquaintance. It takes some time to begin to look like a homeless person, trust me, I know these things. So, in conclusion. I’m in desperate need of a flatmate and you’re in even more desperate need of somewhere to stay, at least for now. We already know each other from before, even if a significant amount of time has passed since then, and this flat has a room to spare.”  
He fished a cigarette out of his pocket. It wasn’t in the silver-plated case any longer, maybe he hadn’t kept it over the years. This was just an ordinary tin case that you could buy at any tobacco store for a cheap penny.  
“So, if we return to the original question, “he concluded. “How do you like it? This place?”  
I felt dumbstruck for a second. It all happened so fast. We hadn’t seen each other for ten years to this day and we had both shared a horrible experience last time we had been together. I was definitely a different person now. First of all I wasn’t a child anymore and I wasn’t blue-eyed like I had been back then. But at the same time, what he was proposing made sense. I had nowhere to go and he genuinely seemed to want me to accept his suggestion. If I felt in any way that things would become uncomfortable or uneasy, I could leave again. Time would heal the wound in my shoulder and I could get back to working again eventually but I needed somewhere to be right now, and I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.  
“I don’t have that much money…” I began but he just shook his head.  
“Neither have I. So we’re basically where we left of the last time, both pretending to have more than we actually have, there’s nothing new to that.”  
I couldn’t help laughing at that and he joined in.  
“I have some small savings of course but it isn’t much,” I said, but he told me not to worry about it.  
“Mrs Hudson isn’t that picky about the rent, she’s been letting me get quite the discount for the last two months I’ve been living here.”  
“Mrs Hudson?” I asked, and the fragment of a memory struggled to get to the surface of my mind.  
“You probably met her at Donnithorpe. She used to work there. She’s been with the family since I was born.”  
At the mention of Donnithorpe my eyes widened slightly. I hadn’t heard that name for years. Not since meeting Gregory. But I wasn’t ready to have that talk right now, it wasn’t as if it was an elephant in the room. Not yet at least.  
“So, how did you end up with her? Did she come with you when you left Donnithorpe?”  
I wanted to bite my tongue, but he remained unmoved by my comment.  
“It was actually coincidental. It’s a rather long story, but the short version is that we helped each other out at a time when we both needed it and then I ran in to her about two months ago. She had this house that was too big for her and asked if I wanted to rent a floor and I was in desperate need of a new home, so it worked out quite well. Even better now that we are two paying renters. I was beginning to despair a bit actually. Getting a discount only works for the first couple of months, then it starts putting a strain on the relationship and Mrs Hudson is actually someone I would like to keep having in my life.”  
Right. I nodded and decided to not press the issue, if he wanted to tell me any further details later on I could wait. Today was my 24th birthday, I had found a new home for myself and regained an acquaintance with a person I never dreamed of ever seeing again. I felt quite happy wit this outcome.  
So this is how it came about that I started to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes and I never looked back on that decision with regret. But the past was still a haunting present and as time grew it became more evident that it wasn’t that easy to just move on and forget.


	17. Showing your true colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living with Sherlock is not what John expected it to be.

In the beginning of our shared flatliving everything felt like a whirlwind of excitement and adrenalin mixed with something that was sprung out my developed ways of being more self-assured and determined than I had been when we first knew each other. I assisted him in solving the jewel theft case on our first night living together and went to bed early in the morning after a rather dramatic conclusion to the case, with Sherlock taking center stage as if being born to take that role and a very happy client who paid handsomely and promised to spread the name of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to everyone he knew as he left for the continent the following day.  
We had scarcely any time to breathe when the next case came along, and we were caught up in a strange tale of embezzlement in the world of finance and so it rolled on for the next couple of days. We barely had any time to just be and I went with him on every mission he took upon himself, so in the beginning it didn’t feel like we were flatmates, because we seldom had any time to spend in the actual flat. Sometimes he left me, so I could catch up on sleep and food, he himself seemed to find his fuel elsewhere and pushed his body to the limit. I remembered that he had been a picky eater even at 17, mostly just moving the food around on his plate and since I had heard him play the violin at night I assumed that he hadn’t been prone to sleep that much back then either.   
So the beginning went really smoothly. My shoulder started to feel better too and the summer with its light nights and warm weather kept us happy and content for the first two and a half weeks.   
Then it suddenly ebbed out with the cases. The clients that came weren’t interesting enough in his opinion and as the whirlwind of our actions began to slow down we finally had a chance to settle in to some sort of normality. 

It was just that living with Sherlock Holmes was anything but normal. 

He could be very moody and easily bored. I had known this of course, remembering it slightly from the summer at Donnithorpe, but this was different and much more intense. He became either testy or really withdrawn and quiet, absorbed in his violin or in some foul experiment that never seemed to lead to anything useful, more likely it caused the flat to reek with fumes of different types of odors. And that was sadly not the worst, just a dot on the long list of other disturbing things that rubbed me the wrong way about our flatsharing. He was very untidy except for when it came to his own person. Books, papers, chemical equipment, magazines etc was covering almost every surface of the living room and even if I didn’t have many belongings I was used to things being more tidy and when the flat sometimes resembled a science experiment and went well beyond eccentric I couldn’t help to vent my frustrations. After three weeks we had our first disagreement and combined with his already moody behavior at the moment it led to him storming out of the flat. When he returned hours later my anger had dissipated and we silently made up without having to talk about it and we actually had a more easy atmosphere after having had our first row.   
But despite his occasional moods, the chaotic livingroom, the chemical experiments and so forth, the worst thing I had to endure was something I didn’t know how to handle.

It came creeping up on me and at first, I didn’t recognize it and when it dawned on me I tried to tamper it down. But as time went it became worse.   
When I was 14 I didn’t really know what to do with the crush I had on Sherlock but much of that could be explained away by my youth, I had just been a child at the time. Now I was an adult and so was he, the question was even who was more experienced now, him or me. He had a head start of three years and his past had been full of romantic entanglements, the obvious one with Victor Trevor of course but I didn’t know about Charles Magnussen or professor Moriarty, he might have done something with those two as well. But beside that, I had no idea what he might have indulged in over the years. I on the other hand had several sexual encounters, no romantic ones really but experience-wise I was no innocent anymore.  
So when the old feelings from ten years started to resurface again I did my best to ignore them. It wasn’t the stupid crush anymore, but it still felt silly and I had no intentions of complicating my life with acknowledging the felling I was starting to experience when in his presence.   
At the beginning I told myself it was because he looked the way he did. At 27 he was more dazzling if possible than at 17, more mature looking and dashing, having grown into his body and features more. It was the same raven-colored hair and slanted, mesmerizing eyes, sharp features and pouty mouth but somehow he looked more confident now than the cocky teenager ever did, a confidence that came with age and experience.   
But it wasn’t the looks of course. I was taken by his personality as well and unfortunately, this time just like in the past, he showed no signs of reciprocation. In fact, he seemed totally detached from any warmer feelings all together, never playing the victim to strong emotions except for his own basic ones, like restlessness for example.

We hadn’t talked at all about the past. Mycroft was noticeably absent but that didn’t mean anything, siblings usually didn’t see each other every day as adults, it didn’t mean they didn’t see each other at all. But considering the controlling persona Mycroft had displayed back then it seemed surprising that he didn’t seem to have any contact now with his younger brother. The other thing that bother me a little was the information Gregory had given me a couple of years ago. About the substance abuse. Sherlock didn’t show any sign of indulging in anything of the sort anymore but at the same time, I didn’t really know him, maybe he was better at hiding a drug abuse than he had been back then, hiding his secrets.  
One evening, as we were both sitting in our respective chairs, I with the evening paper and he with a piece of rosin and his bow, I brought up the question that had been nagging at the back of my head for a while now.  
“Whatever happened to Mycroft?”  
He stiffened noticeably in the middle of a movement but didn´t look up at me, just kept his eyes on the bow. Finally he spoke, his voice even and emotionless.  
“What do you mean?”  
I gave him a lopsided small smile because that was a rather stupid attempt at playing nonplussed coming from him, he must now perfectly well what I meant.  
“Well, I haven´t seen him once since moving in and you haven´t even mentioned him. Are you not in contact any longer?”  
“You could say that.”  
“But…”  
“Let´s just say he isn´t involved in running my life anymore. He spies on me because he never could understand the concept of privacy but no, we don´t see each other. Haven´t set my eyes on him for years now and nor do I wish to do so.” He sounded agitated now, the subject was clearly sensitive.  
I balked a bit at the harsh tone in his voice but at the same time I wasn´t completely surprised, Mycroft had after all tried to marry off his younger brother for the sake of a house. But a detail in Sherlocks outburst stuck with me and I frowned.  
“What do you mean, he spies on you?”  
“Not in person obviously, if he was lazy ten years ago, imagine what he might be like now. He´s considerably bigger in frame also, probably just waddles from work to his house and back the next day. Hardly breaks a sweat.”  
“So what do you mean by spying then?”  
“He still likes to have control but since I don´t let him near me and he has his precious reputation to think of he sends his lackeys instead, following me around town. Well they try to anyway. I´ve gotten pretty good at shaking them off.”  
“Are you sure?” I couldn´t help the skeptical tone in my voice but he just smiled wryly.  
“Oh, I´m sure. And he knows that I know but pretends that he doesn´t have a clue what I´m talking about. I confronted him once, in the beginning, when I started noticing that I was being followed and finally made one of those idiots confess, but Mycroft straight out refused to acknowledge having anything to do with it. We really haven´t spoken since then.”  
“But why? What could possibly justify something like this?”  
He sighed and put the rosin down, resting it in his lap while he turned his eyes away, refusing to meet mine.  
“He says that he´s worried and while I admit things got a little out of hand after Donnithorpe it doesn´t justify what he does. It´s his obsession with control, he´s been like that ever since our parents died, but it has intensified over the years. As I refuse to see him he must get his rapports about my whereabouts from somewhere and this is the method he has chosen.”  
I hesitated, feeling the next question was bordering on something very personal, but at the same time, we were sharing a home now, if he was in any way involved with something I couldn’t condone I should have the right to know it. I knew that a lot of people in the city indulged in different kinds of narcotics, from the upper classes to the low, I had heard about the opium dens, the cocaine, lithium and morphine that you could buy over the counter in most pharmacies, people who went on holiday to Tunisia or Algiers and smoked hash with the locals and so on. But as a doctor I was a firm believer in that narcotics ruined lives and never led to anything good, despite the fact that some of my colleagues prescribed drugs to their patients sometimes, too soothe nerves, balance their personalities, as pain medication and so forth. And if I found out that Sherlock was an addict I would not silently stand by and let him ruin his health for a shortlived pleasure. So I ventured forward with my questions.  
“Has he reason to be worried about you? I understand that it was hard after Donnithorpe, even if I don´t know any details….”  
“You could read all the details in the papers.”  
“I chose to not do that. I was a child back then, all I wanted was to forget about everything. I saw some headlines, that Magnussen was sentenced, that he died after a couple of years and so forth, but I didn´t want to get involved, I just wanted to move on.”  
Sherlock looked at me and his eyes were huge in the shadows of the room as evening was progressing outside our window. His face was very pale and thin and he suddenly looked almost pained and maybe he was. Donnithorpe had changed us more than we were willing to admit. As he continued to stay silent I decided to be the one to press the matter. It was perhaps better for us to hash this out once and for all. I didn´t need to know everything but I needed to have some answers for my own sake too.   
“What happened to you all after I left?”  
He sighed and for a second I was sure that he was going to withdraw into himself and not answer, but then it was as if he decided that I had been a part of the events at Donnithorpe too, more or less involuntarily, so I had a right to know the ending to the story.  
“The first days were horrible. Victor was dead, I knew it the second I saw Magnussen fire his weapon. The blood, the eyes, he died within seconds. The bullet went straight through his heart. I never had the chance to say any last words, it was brutal in a way I never imagined death to be. I had up till then looked upon crimes in a very clinical way, the victim was just a piece of a puzzle, not a real person, so it was a rude awakening to experience. And it wasn´t even a mystery to solve, the killer was standing right there, in front of me and it was all my own fault.”  
“No…”, I started to protest because it wasn´t, I never thought so even if a lot people blamed Sherlock for playing with Magnussen’s feelings, resulting in that act of jealousy.  
“But it was. Victor died because I couldn’t keep track of time, because I wasn’t focused enough, I never saw Magnussen behaving possessively so I never counted with anything like this happening. I knew he was slightly jealous of you and I riled him up sometimes as punishment for wanting me and forcing Mycroft to agree to his plans of marrying me, but I miscalculated, I never saw this ruthless side of him, so I wasn’t prepared. I should have observed him closer.”  
“You couldn’t have known, none of us saw it coming. It was a spur of the moment, a series of unfortunate events and believe me, I even blamed myself at the time, so I know how you feel. But we didn’t know he was going to do what he did.”  
Sherlock frowned and gave me a scrutinizing look.   
“Why would you be blaming yourself? That makes no sense?”  
Oh. It hadn’t dawned on me that I might be giving a little too much away and I wasn’t prepared to lay out the whole truth, not now, possibly never. He might have suspected the crush I had on him back then but the curse I had put on him and Victor, it was a little beyond just a normal infatuation. And the fact that my feelings for him had started to resurface once again might suddenly shine through if I started to give too much away. I knew how excellent his observational skills were, it felt like being scrutinized under a microscope sometimes. So I thought quickly and tried my best to sound emotionless in my voice. I was known as a rather terrible liar but the room was dusky and my features weren’t that visible, all I had to focus on was the sound of my voice.  
“Well, I was there when it happened, and I had been helping you deliver the letters between you and Victor. That’s why Mycroft started hitting me, remember? He was furious,”  
I shuddered at the memory because up to the moment when Magnussen showed up, Mycroft hitting and screaming in rage at me was the most distressing event that evening. I felt the force behind every hit as he pounded out his desperate anger seeing his plans for Sherlock and himself crumble before his very eyes with Victor Trevor claiming Sherlock inside the small sacristy.  
“No one’s blaming you because of that. As you said earlier, you were a child. And you were more or less forced to deliver those letters. I knew I shouldn’t have used you, but I did it anyway, one of the many other faults I committed back then.”  
He looked truly sad now and though I felt sorry for him, I couldn’t help the slight feeling of relief that he hadn’t noticed that I was hiding something. He continued his story while I rose to pour us some tea from the pot Mrs Hudson had left us earlier.  
“Anyway. I was distraught for the next couple of days, hardly remember what happened around me. Mycroft dragged me out of the church but that’s about it. I don’t even remember everyone leaving, suddenly it was just me and Mycroft alone at Donnithorpe, having our suitcases packed.”  
“Magnussen kicked you out?”  
“His solicitor did. And we were wanted for questioning in London. Scotland Yard had taken over the case as it had such a prominent central figure as a suspect. It was just like a situation I had always dreamed of, me in the middle of a criminal case, but be careful what you wish for and all that. I hated every moment of this.”  
“That’s understandable.”  
“We went to London and a whole media circus started up around us. The press was vile, Mycroft was angry all the time and the police treated me like a child. And I missed Victor terribly. It was supposed to be him and me, going to London. Nothing like this, with him dead and me as a witness to his murder. I wasn’t even allowed to go to the funeral. Mycroft forbid me to go. Not that his parents would have wanted me there, they blamed me almost as much as they did Magnussen, wanted to see me prosecuted too, for leading their son into danger. I think I got away with a lot of the blame from the police because of my age. I wasn’t even legal and my whole life lay in shatters. I was forced to stand and face Magnussen during the trial, tell everyone all the details of my private life, how long I had been seeing Victor, why I had accepted Magnussen’s proposal, what my intentions had been and so forth. Mycroft got some of the heat too, but he managed to keep his calm, answered questions so no one really blamed him for his part and he berated me for getting us into this mess. Every night. “  
He shuddered at the memory and I felt compelled to reach out and comfort him but thought better of it. So instead I took a sip of my tea and waited for him to continue.  
“When the trial was beginning to come to an end I was so lost and distressed that I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I did something…perhaps a bit rash.”  
“What?”  
“Mycroft had managed to locate us to some distant family friend outside London but we were constantly harassed by both press and people in the streets, so I mostly stayed inside when not forced to attend the trial. One day a parcel was delivered to me. I would’ve been more suspicious if not for the sender.”  
Here he hesitated, and I was almost at the edge of my seat with curiosity.  
“Who was it?”  
“It’s actually a long story and one I rather not get into right now. Suffice to say it was from someone I trusted, and it contained a solution to my problem with not being able to escape my own thoughts. I literally thought I was going insane and at the time it felt like a great idea, or at least a passable answer to all my problems.”  
He stopped once again, and I was afraid that he wouldn’t say anything else. The room was now in almost complete darkness and he rose to turn on the lamp on the table next to the sofa. His long slender frame threw a long shadow behind him, on the wall. I remained seated, unable to move, as if afraid to spook him into silence. But he returned after having turned on the light and seated himself in front of me once again.  
“The parcel contained a beautiful Moroccan case, handmade with silk lining inside. Inside was a simple note that simply said: if you wish to move on and forget.”  
“What did the case contain?”  
“A syringe and a small vial with a clear liquid inside. Cocaine.”  
My eyes widened slightly but the rest of my face stayed calm, not wanting to put any judgement into his actions even if I already knew the answer. I had known all along even if I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Calmly he said the phrase I already had visualized inside my head.  
“I took the advice and didn’t look back to regret it until it was all too late. And that first shot of cocaine is why Mycroft never ever will release his grip on me.”   
“You became an addict?”  
“Obviously. It went quicker than I could ever had anticipated and when Mycroft found out, he tried to lock me inside to cure me of my habit. But it was too late. I ran, and I didn’t stop running for several years.”  
My eyes were watching his lips move as he talked and I had to fasten my grip around the cup of tea I was holding, to prevent me from stroking his cheek. This vulnerability was very tempting and a new side to him I hadn’t really seen before, adding yet another detail to a personality I was already beginning to fall for again. But this time it was different, I wasn’t the insecure boy anymore and he was clearly destressed by his story so even if my intentions were to keep my feelings hidden I saw myself, as if watching from the outside, suddenly put down my cup on its saucer on the small table next to me with an abrupt clinking noise, lean forward to his unassuming face and cup his chin. The skin beneath my fingers was smooth and I tightened my grip slightly to keep his face in place when I in the peripheral of my eyes saw surprise mar his features. And before he could protest, or I consider my own actions I pressed my lips to his and kissed him.


	18. Mr Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John och Sherlock get interrupted.

It didn’t last more than a second and I never had the opportunity to see his reaction because suddenly there was a knock on the door and we automatically pulled away and I released my grip on his chin and turned towards the insistent sound just as the door opened and Mrs Hudson appeared with a man in tow. A client most likely.  
“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you have a visitor.” She announced and moved aside to let the man enter.  
I looked back to Sherlock to see if my kiss had rendered him speechless, if he was shocked and upset by my actions? Pleased? Anything? But his face looked like nothing had happened between us, eyes focused on the visitor and lips the same shape and color as before my assault. I involuntarily licked my own lips and could still feel a lingering tingle on them from the contact with his delicious mouth but if he saw what I did he didn’t acknowledge it.  
Mrs Hudson moved inside and started to pick up our teacups and the pot while Sherlock swiftly approached the visitor, brushing past me without coming into contact. I sighed inwardly, that didn’t bode well. My head was swimming with regret now and thoughts of what this would mean for us whirled inside me as I tried to concentrate on what was going on around me.  
The visitor, a Mr Adam Worth, was a short, slight man with whiskers and a bushy mustache, greying hair and a walking cane, looking about 50 years old. He had glasses on which obscured his eyes slightly but from what I could se of them, they looked dark but sparkling with a combination of worry but also excitement, as if eager to see us. Or rather Sherlock because it was at him his attention was turned.  
“Mr Holmes! You must help me, I don’t know where else to turn with my predicament.”  
His voice was nasal and slightly shaky, as if upset. Sherlock gestured for him to be seated while he himself sat down in his own chair. He usually told clients why I was allowed to stay, that everything they wanted to tell him could also be told in my presence, but today, he just remained silent.  
Mr Worth rubbed his hands nervously over the handle of the cane while starting to talk.  
His story was one of surreal occurrences, involving a famous painting of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, that had been missing after a theft from a London gallery in 1876 but had now resurfaced under very surprising circumstances during a dinner at the house of Mr Worth’s employer, a Mr Charles Bullard.  
“I’m a dabbler in the world of art, Mr Holmes, but I remember this very well and this crime in particular, because, as it happens, my uncle was working at the very gallery of Thomas Agnew and Son when the painting disappeared. He was fired afterwards; poor man and they never caught the thief. “  
“And now you think you have seen the painting? In the home of your employer?”  
“I work at a law firm, as a clerk and I had the pleasure to be invited to Mr Bullard’s house for Sunday dinner yesterday.”  
“Why was that? Is that a common occurrence to invite your employees for dinner?”  
“Well, no. But he has recently joined the firm and early on showed his appreciation of my work, you can say we have struck up a good working relationship between us.”  
“I see.”  
Sherlock didn’t elaborate any further and when no additional comment came Mr Worth continued.  
“Therefore, I was very honored but maybe not surprised to be invited to his home to have dinner. We are both bachelors, you see and not the most social of fellows perhaps, but sometimes it’s nice to enjoy the company of others, if only for a few hours. And it all went very smoothly, we had a wonderful duck roast, talked about work but also touched on subjects outside the firm, like politics, geography and eventually art.”  
“Was he the one to bring up the subject?”  
“Hm…,” Mr Worth looked flummoxed for a second then shook his head. “I don’t remember. Does it matter?”  
“All details are usually of some importance to me when I work, however insignificant they may seem to everyone else. That’s what differs me from the police, my attention to detail and my observational skills.”  
Mr Worth watched Sherlock over the rim of his glasses and for a second something glimmered in his eyes, almost like mirth, but then it was gone again and in its’ place was a face full of worry once more.  
“I’m not sure but he might have been the one who broached the subject but since art is one of my huge interest outside my work, I was a willing participant in the conversation.”   
“And the painting?”  
“Well. He said he had some art hanging in his house and he willingly showed me. It wasn’t anything spectacular, the usual paintings of contemporary artists, I’m not a huge fan of the style popular at the moment, I’m a traditionalist myself, but I politely looked at what he showed me. But then, suddenly, in the library, something really caught my eye and at first I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at. I thought it was a replica perhaps, or something similar to the Georgiana, but as I approached it, there was no question to it being the real thing.”  
“How would you know for sure? Are you an art expert?”  
“Well, no and sure, there could’ve been a small chance that I was mistaken. Even as a mere amateur it was because of my uncle’s fate and the fact that he showed me the painting himself several times before it was stolen, while visiting him at the gallery, that made me certain that I was seeing the original painting. But the thing that really convinced me is something that happened next.”  
“And what was that?”  
“I stared at the painting, so shocked at what I was seeing that my host saw my staring and came up beside me to look at it too. Then he opened his mouth and told me that it was a family heirloom, inherited through generations and originating from a gift from the artist himself as payment for a debt to a family member of Mr Bullard. But not a detail he claimed to be the truth made any sense. Dates, details, everything was wrong and although not a scholar I knew enough from my uncle about the painter, Thomas Gainsborough, to see through Mr Bullard’s lies. But as he is my employer I didn’t feel secure enough to question his story on the spot, But I must have conveyed some skepticism and hesitation because soon after he excused himself and declared my visit to be over. The atmosphere when I left was a little stiff quite frankly. He probably understood that I had seen through his story.”  
“And now you want what exactly?”  
“Well, it’s not over yet, Mr Holmes. Because I couldn’t let this leave my mind and I pondered the subject all night, both out of loyalty to my late uncle who lost his job because of this theft and he never became the same after it, but also because it showed the morals of my employer if he so openly lied to me about this painting, he must have known that it was stolen goods. So, when morning came I decided to go to the police and actually managed to get an officer to come with me back to Mr Bullard’s house and throw some light on the matter. It would’ve been such a relief if this stolen painting finally could be returned to its rightful owner and even if my uncle is dead since almost 20 years now I’m sure my actions would have made him proud. He was a man who took huge pride in his work, he was devastated when the painting was stolen.”   
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and watched our visitor through half-lidded eyes. He looked like a sphinx, mysterious and ominously beautiful. My feelings that had been reeling after our kiss had somewhat calmed down as I listened to Mr Worth but just as our visitor had his whole focus on Sherlock, so had I. I was sure that I was the furthest thing from his mind right now, the cases always came first, but eventually it would just be him and me again. I didn’t know if I should dread that moment or long for it.   
“But something happened that made you come here. Weren’t the police forthcoming with your allegations?”  
Mr Worth shook his head slowly and for the first time looked away, while firming his grip on the walking cane, knuckles turning white.  
“Mr Bullard wasn’t home when we arrived, he had left for work already and I should really have been there too, but this seemed like a more pressing matter. The maid who opened the door let us in when the police presented the reason for our visit. But as we came in to the library the painting was nowhere in sight and in it’s place hung a nondescript portrait of an anonymous noble woman, similar in style but obviously not so similar that I could have mistaken it for the Georgiana. But nonetheless, the painting was not there and when questioned, the maid refused any knowledge of any other painting than the one now hanging there, to ever having been on that wall. I managed to persuade the officer to search the house but to no avail. It was like the painting had never been there. But Mr Holmes, I know what I saw! And to make this story even more regretful is that when I finally did arrive to my work, the maid must have informed her employer of our visit with the police and I was called in to his office and without further ado was informed that I no longer had an employment at the firm. I have been working there for 30 years! I don’t know what to do, Mr Holmes but I know what I saw and if I only could prove that I’m right and that Mr Bullard in fact has a stolen painting in his possession I might get my job back and justice will be served.”  
The last quivering tone of his voice died out and the room went quiet while the sole focus was on Sherlock now. He had closed his eyes and sat still as a statue in his chair. Mr Worth finally turned to me and hesitantly looked between us.  
“Is he…?”  
“It’s fine. He just focused. That’s good actually, it means he’s contemplating taking the case. If he wasn’t going to take it he would’ve shown you the door already, Mr Worth.”  
Without opening his eyes Sherlock finally started talking.  
“If I solve this, what is in it for me?”  
Mr Worth looked perplexed and frankly, so did I. The question about payment and reward never usually came up when he was taking on cases, he probably saw that detail as beneath him to talk about and money was never the reason for doing his work. Even if we actually needed the money to pay rent and I myself hadn’t started working yet and therefor couldn’t contribute that much except with my final savings that were rapidly running out.  
Mr Worth looked anxiously at Sherlock when replying.   
“What do you mean? Justice will be served, and I will gladly pay you from my meager savings of course.”  
But Sherlock was having not of that. He shook his head slowly and one side of his mouth turned upwards in a sneer.  
“You will pay me to solve this concoction of lies that you have been wasting my time serving up for the last half an hour? Glad to hear it since you can’t repay the actual time.”  
“Mr Holmes!”  
Mr Worth looked like he had been struck over the face, a combination of hurt and anger were visible now. But Sherlock looked unfazed by it. In a dry tone he just answered, as if talking with a servant.  
“Please. I’m surprised you came yourself this time. Haven’t heard from you for over three years now. Something piqued your interest enough to warrant a visit?”  
I furrowed my brow, looking in bewilderment as Sherlock remained seated with his eyes closed but Mr Worth had sprung up, upset by the words. He was staring down at the sphinxlike creature in front of him until suddenly bursting out in a high-pitched laugh. And with that laugh it was as if years melted away from the person in front of me and he removed his glasses to wipe away the tears of merriment gathered in the corner of his eyes. As he removed them I could see his eyes better now. They were a molten brown, the irises so blown out of proportion that they looked almost black. In a totally different tone of voice, no longer nasal or that of an old man, Mr Worth spoke gleefully when regaining some composure.  
“Did you like it? The performance? The detail with the painting? I remember you giving it the rightful attention it deserves that one time you saw it. Too bad you were too out of your mind with cocaine to do any constructive thinking that time.”  
My blood froze at the mention of the cocaine. Who was this? What was going on? But Sherlock remained calm and unfazed. Just waved his hand nonchalantly in a dismissive gesture, seemingly not bothered by the accusation.  
“Not particularly impressed actually. More wondering what this charade would accomplish? You hardly could believe I would fall for the stuttering old man-routine and the “problem” is hardly intriguing enough to justify my attention. Especially as I, as you yourself mentioned, am fully aware where the painting actually is, who has it and that the whole story was a just a fabrication. Boring. Maybe you’re finally starting to lose your touch. Or I’m getting better at seeing through you. Could be both.”  
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started, and the man stepped forward to loom over Sherlock, still sitting in his chair, eyes closed. To my unease his face was mere centimeters away from Sherlock’s when he hissed, small sprays of spit leaving his lips.  
“Watch it, Sherlock dear. You never could handle me and that will never stop. I know your weaknesses. Even the new ones.”  
He turned his face to look at me and suddenly his face looked purely evil. And angry. The dark eyes drilled themselves into mine and mentally I recoiled from the force in them, even if I physically stood my ground, returning his stare stoically.  
“Like this new “acquaintance” of yours. Thought you learned your lesson ten years ago. You’re not made for human interactions. Except with myself of course. Not that I’m a normal human being.”  
Back was the high-pitched laughter and a mad grin spread, marring his features. It was like watching a string-puppet with two faces, angry or joyous, never knowing which would next reveal itself. He pointed a finger into the chest of my flatmate.  
“See this as at warning, Sherlock. No transgressions. You know how that ends.”   
With that he straightened his spine and picked up the cane that he had left propped up against the chair he had occupied moments ago. He looked around and nodded thoughtfully as he let his eyes roam the room before once again landing on Sherlock.  
“Love the place, by the way. It is very you. Just needs some ridding of ballast and it will be just the place for a man of your intellect and taste. You don’t need a pet. They always tend to be too needy or end up biting the hand that feeds them.”  
With that he turned and started to head for the door. Sherlock opened his eyes but otherwise didn’t move and neither did I, unsure of what exactly I had been exposed to.  
“We’ll see each other, Sherlock. Soon I think. I’ll be in town for a while this time, plenty of opportunities to reacquaint ourselves with each other.”   
The door closed quietly behind him and the room felt like someone had dropped a grenade right in the middle of it, the silence was deafening and the atmosphere so thick you could slice it.

After what felt like an eternity I turned to look at Sherlock who just sat there staring at the closed door. Then he looked down at his hands before reaching for a cigarette. As he didn’t offer an explanation on his own I finally exploded.  
“Who the hell was that?!”  
“Reminder from the past, “came the quiet reply.  
“What does that mean? And what was that about the cocaine?”  
Sherlock huffed and took a deep drag of his cigarette.  
“What do you think he meant? The same as I told you. I used to be an addict.”  
“But how does he know that? Who is he?”  
Sherlock sighed and finally turned his eyes to really look at me. He looked tired.   
“The one who got me started. Professor in mathematics, criminal mastermind and my own personal nemesis. James Moriarty.”   
My eyes widened in surprise. Was this the professor who had been part of Sherlock’s expulsion from school as a teenager? And was he also responsible for his descend in to the world of drugs? Involuntarily I clenched my fists as my anger started to rise and before I could really control myself I bent over the thin dark-haired person sitting calmly in his chair in front of me and grabbed his chin so he was forced to look me straight in the eyes.  
“And what exactly is it that he wants with you?”  
I couldn’t help feeling jealousy starting to rise inside myself as different scenarios rapidly played up in front of my eyes and the intensity of my feelings almost startled me as I hadn’t felt anything as strongly for anyone before. Sherlock tried to turn his head away from my grasp, but I refused to let go. I needed answers and I was going to get them. Now. Finally Sherlock sighed and relaxed under my fingers.  
“I can’t be sure. But I think he came here tonight because of you actually.”  
“Because of me? I don’t even know who he is.”  
“Well, seems like he knows who you are. This was his way of warning us.”  
“From what?”  
“Him.”  
I shook my head and released my grip. None of this was making any sense. What did I have to do with any of this? Who was this man anyway? And more importantly, who was he in relations to Sherlock. I decided that the kiss we had shared and the repercussions of that had to wait for a while. This matter seemed far more pressing and I was not going to let Sherlock off the hook without an explanation this time.  
So I sat down in my chair, crossed my leg over the other and leaned back against the back of the chair with an expectant look.  
“Take it from the top, Sherlock and tell me everything.”  
“Or else?” he tried even though he saw my stubbornness now, it was radiating from my body in waves.  
“Or else I leave tonight.”  
His eyebrows rose in surprise and for a second I was certain that he was going to test me on my threat, because of course there was no way I was going to leave him for good. Not now, not when everything between us was still hanging in the air the way it did. I had just experienced what his lips tasted like less than an hour ago and was eager to see if there might possibly be something more between us than a kiss, but it was also important to me to show him that I was not that child anymore that he had once known, who had done everything he asked of me, blindly and without protest. If this was ever going to work I needed to show him that I was a different person and I wanted to know who he really was too. And maybe he sensed this because suddenly his shoulders slumped, and he extinguished his cigarette before turning to me with his full attention.  
“Fine, “he said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Adam Worth was a true criminal, nicknamed "The Napoleon of crime" by Scotland yard and considered to be the inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle when creating professor Moriarty. Adam Worth was also in reality the one who stole the painting of Georgiana - Duchess of Devonshire. He eventually returned it and turned legal in his later years. Mr Worth in this story really just shares the name, not the career choices.


	19. The professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John about James Moriarty.

“I first met him at school when I was 15. He was a professor in mathematics. Not in any of my classes, he worked with older students, the ones preparing for college. He was only doing it temporarily, he was waiting for a position in a higher faculty and really didn’t like teaching that much. He was all about the numbers, logarithms and formulas, people were beyond his limits of understanding. That was actually one of the reasons I liked him, because after several years at a boarding school for boys I hated other people. They didn’t understand me and I certainly didn’t understand them.”  
“How old was he?”  
“Around 27-28 perhaps. I wasn’t aware of him in the beginning, it was a large school with plenty of people there and I had stopped paying attention to a surrounding that didn’t interest me. But he evidently noticed me and arranged for us to meet. I didn’t work it out then, but he told me later. “  
“Was it like with Magnussen, one look through a window and he was “caught”?”  
Sherlock looked at me with a hint of sudden coldness.  
“We weren’t involved like that. It was never romantic. More a great mind meeting a similar one in a place full of dimwits. “  
“I see.” I nodded and felt a slight relief. Whatever this was there wasn’t anything romantic or sexual between them at least. “How did he arrange for you to meet?”  
“We had this annual school challenge, originally based on some idea from the schoolboard that pupils needed to kickstart the beginning of every autumn term with a series of tests to show their abilities and knowledge as well as showing new arrivals the high educational level the school prided themselves with keeping up. It could differ very much, depending on which subjects the challenge consisted of, sometimes it was history, usually literature or the classics and I never really bothered that much as it usually were childish questions and never particularly challenging at all, but this year Moriarty had asked specifically to be the teacher who prepared the challenge. He said afterwards that he had heard other teachers complain about me wasting my knowledge by not bothering to show up for classes or keeping attention during lectures but that my scores proved me to be very capable. He wanted to test that and put together the most elaborate challenge our school had ever seen. I was the only student to complete it. The award was a stupid gold medal and a diploma, and I couldn’t have cared less at the time, I just enjoyed the problem-solving part of the challenge and then lost interest. But his curiosity was piqued, and he sought me out afterwards. After that initial meeting he intrigued me as well by not being like the others and he saw my need for excitement, adventure and intellectual stimulus. He also had a streak of danger around him, he fascinated me as well as slightly putting me off. At first, I almost thought he was revolting. He had a manic way about him and he looked a bit smarmy even, but he was riveting to say the least, mainly with his attitude and way of thinking, it appealed to me. We complemented each other in a way I had never experienced with anyone before. After that initial challenge he continued our newly found acquaintance by giving me small puzzles to solve, mathematical mostly at first but soon more intricate ones, with clues, maps, pictures and so on. And it was fun and I enjoyed myself for the first time in a very long time and he loved “to see me dance” as he put it. As we got to know each other better and he found out my interest in crime solving he upped the ante and put together small pretend crime scenarios that I had a limited amount of time to solve. If I failed I was to perform some sort of favor for him.”  
“What kind of favor?”   
My voice was back to being suspicious again. Was my latently hidden jealousy acting up at every opportunity or was Sherlock being surprisingly naïve even now, years later? It sounded like this man was anything but innocent and great intellectual challenge or not, it was a highly doubtful arrangement they had formed between them back then. I was frankly surprised Sherlock couldn’t see that. He just shrugged his shoulders at my question.  
“I’m not sure as I never failed whatever assignment he gave me. At first it was all fun and exciting and I had someone to talk to who understood my way of thinking and it didn’t really cross my mind that he was older, we were almost not human, purely brains and intellect. He had these rooms with great access to books I had never seen before, he always seemed to have time for me and he wasn’t the simpering polite or snobbish person a lot of the others at school were. When I talked about crimes I had read about in the papers he didn’t tell me toll stop dwelling on horrible subjects like murders and bank robberies, instead he encouraged me to think of the circumstances around the crimes, details that weren’t in the papers and so on and he helped develop my observational skills, becoming more focused.”  
“So, you really got along splendidly it seems. What went wrong? From what I gather you’re not exactly on friendly terms anymore?”   
“Well, after a while I grew restless again. It’s always been in my nature, I put all my focus on something for a certain amount of time and then I grow tired when I have figured it out. This is what happened with Moriarty as well. I started to find his mannerisms trite and predictable, he was too loud for my taste sometimes, he had this way of giggling at the most inopportune moments for example or having terrible mood swings, almost hysterical with joy one moment and then almost seething with anger at the next. It was tiresome, so I withdrew, and he replied by turning everything up a notch.”  
I sighed. This felt too strange and I felt compelled to ask him if he really hadn’t noticed the oddness of this arrangement back then.   
“But didn’t it ever cross your mind to question why he was doing this? What he was getting out of spending his time with a 15-year-old?”  
Sherlock leaned backwards in his chair and turned his head upwards, looking up at the ceiling while sighing heavily. His features were indifferent but slightly tired perhaps. He was clearly not enjoying delving into his past.  
“Yes, sometimes I did wonder. And I did ask him, but he just said I was unique, that age was irrelevant when it came to our way of thinking. That I reminded him a bit of himself. He said we could achieve greatness together eventually.”  
“What did he mean by that? It doesn’t sound that innocent even if you’re insisting there wasn’t anything sexual going on between you two.” I couldn’t help venting my suspicions now, I didn’t understand why a man like that would indulge a child’s wishes like he had if there hadn’t been a hidden agenda. It made no sense.  
“I’m not sure exactly why he targeted in on me like he did, because even if we to some extent worked in similar ways intellectually there were others he could have played with if he had wanted to. Older students, perhaps a teacher or two. Sure, no one was quite like the two of us, but I was just a 15-year-old boy, almost half his age and even if I was his intellectual counterpart I wasn’t mature enough to understand everything. I would never have admitted it back then, but I can see it now, we were not equal. He had the advantage of experience and maturity. I was just playing a game because I was bored. “  
He lowered his head back down again to look at me more clearly. His eyes were gleaming slightly now.  
“A bit like when I met Victor a year later. Except Victor really cared for me as a person, to Moriarty I was more….” He hesitated for the first time as if unsure how to continue. When he didn’t continue I wondered if he didn’t know what to say or if he was caught up in his own memories, forgetting I was there, but finally he started talking again.  
“It started out as a way of passing my time with Victor and the feelings came later. And in a way the same was the case with James Moriarty. In the beginning he was just a professor who gave me puzzles to stave off my boredom, I didn’t even have to go look for him because he was just constantly there, in my vicinity, and he took his time to see what lay beyond my prickliness. Most people just judged me in relation to my appearance or my family name, he didn’t seem that interested in either. Or not noticeably anyway. But his presence grew on me and eventually we both got too entangled in our own game and it led to our downfall. It was almost like an obsession.”  
I nodded because I knew all about the sort of obsessiveness Sherlock had the ability to evoke in other people. It was something about him that managed to turn the head of the sanest of people. Victor certainly. Magnussen surprisingly but without a doubt. Me of course. Even Mycroft had shown that possessiveness when it came to his brother, apparently still did if he was stalking him like Sherlock claimed. And if this professor Moriarty, more than ten years later, continually sought him out like he had tonight he was obviously like the rest of us in that regard.  
“He constantly stretched the limit for what we were doing and suddenly we weren’t really playing pretend anymore. My perception of time was a bit off because before I met him everything seemed to have been at a standstill and afterwards it just flew by without pause, but after a few months there was a real crime, involving the death of a student and he convinced me that I had to solve it as the police was simply ruling it out as an accident. And I actually wanted to. It seemed natural after our games that I was the one who should be doing it since the police were incapable and it really couldn’t be an accident, it had to be something else.”  
“Why? Did he tell you that?”  
Sherlock gave me an irritated glare, but I was not backing down. I felt the need to question everything, to get to the core of this situation.  
“Because everything pointed in that direction. The crime scene was to neat, to arranged, it didn’t feel natural. There were many details at the time that contradicted the theory of it being an accident. My perception of police work had been tarnished during my time with Moriarty, rightfully so I might add and even when I tried to point out the flaws in their investigation no one listened to me. I simply had to deal with it myself. So I broke into the morgue one night, to have a look at the body and was caught bent over the boy, preoccupied with examining him when a janitor came in and immediately alerted the police to my activities. After that we were doomed of course.”  
Here I interrupted his flow of speech because that last sentence had really shocked me to the core. I was used to his eccentricities but breaking in to a morgue to examine a corpse was too much to swallow even for me.   
“Were you really examining a dead body?!”  
“Just on the surface. Skin, mouth, fingertips and so on. It sounds worse than it was.,” he protested when he saw my appalled look.  
“I think that’s bad enough. As a doctor I strongly disagree with an amateur, especially a mere boy, doing anything with a dead person, however shallow your examination was.”  
He stared at me for a moment, as if wanting to protest to my judgement but then seemingly decided against it and just continued with his narration.  
“My room was searched, messages from James Moriarty were found as well as memorabilia from our previous games and people testified to our resent closeness, so it all came crashing down over our heads. He was fired immediately, and I was expelled. Mycroft came and tried to save me by putting all the blame on Moriarty, but as I was the one who had actually been caught in the morgue his efforts were in vain. Not that I minded leaving school really. Not right away at least. Without Moriarty there it would all go back to a meaningless existence surrounded by idiots. It wasn’t until after experiencing the dreary reality of country living in Norfolk that I understood there were worse fates than being in a boarding school. That’s why Victor became such a godsent.”  
If he noticed my knuckles turning white from tightening my grip around the armrest of my chair he didn’t say anything. Victor Trevor was not a favorite subject of mine and even if we had hashed it out I didn’t like to be reminded of the events or of Sherlock’s warm feelings for him. I was surprised he brought it up himself. Maybe he was feeling slightly melodramatic after a long day full of surprising twists and turns. Maybe this was his way of saying that his feelings for Victor had been the real thing and however hopeful my kiss had been, there could be nothing like it between us?   
“He wasn’t as intellectually challenging as Moriarty but at least he stood for something else than the dull existence Mycroft was offering. When Magnussen appeared on the scene Victor became my true knight in shining armor. I really thought he was going to rescue me somehow from my neatly arranged future. I wish I had done things differently, he could have lived now if he had never met me…”  
I shook my head severely. He looked sad now, but I didn’t want to hear this again. The self-blame.   
“There is no point in thinking like that. Things happen, you can’t predict everything beforehand. He really loved you Sherlock, you made him happy. I don’t think he would have chosen otherwise if he had to do it all over again.”  
“Maybe not. But he shouldn’t have died like that. “  
I interrupted him and put my hand up in front of him in a stopping motion.  
“It feels like you’re getting of topic now. We were talking about James Moriarty.”  
He gave me a quizzical look but then nodded his head and continued. The gleaming in his eyes was gone again and he was back to looking stoic.   
“Yes. Well, he was fired, like I said and even if he tried to contact me at first Mycroft whisked me away out of reach. He managed to send me a note before I left school, but it didn’t really help matters, Mycroft confiscated any further correspondence and furthermore his career was ruined anyway. A scandal at a prestigious boarding school involving a minor and a corpse was too much and the last I heard of him was that he left England in disgrace. None of the schools wanted him and his reputation was damaged. People probably thought we had been involved somehow too, rumors were everywhere and he as the adult got most of the blame. I was more seen as a participant, not the instigator of our games.”  
“Well that was true, wasn’t it?”  
“To some extent. But I sort of forced his hand when I started to grow bored of the more theoretical problems he gave me, he had to raise the stakes to keep me interested. At the time I was sad to have lost his companionship and not until Victor came along did I manage to shake his influence over me. The problem is…”  
He paused and studied me closely. I looked straight back, not wavering, because it felt that what was going to come next could be crucial. His eyes narrowed as he started talking again.  
“I didn’t see it then but afterwards I have come to suspect that he actually was the one who had that student killed.”  
The room went quiet after that while I looked at him, shock in my eyes. Then I erupted.  
“What?! Just for the sake of entertainment? You think he killed someone because of a stupid game?!”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Yes, because he was just that kind of person. It has taken me some time to see it, but based on events that transpired after the Magnussen disaster I have had to change my views of him. Like I said, I was a 15 year old boy at the time and only saw what I wanted to see when it came to him: a person who cared enough about me to spend his time playing intricate puzzle games with a bored pupil and then payed the prize for it. Imagine what I felt when Victor died and Magnussen was sentenced to life in jail, even more people having their lives ruined after coming in contact with me. I was devastated. And he saw his opportunity to arrange his revenge when the events at Donnithorpe played out in the papers and in court.”  
“You mean the cocaine?”  
“Yes. He had evidently held a grudge against me after being forced to leave his profession with a ruined reputation. He never said anything about it at the time, maybe he never got the opportunity but when he saw his chance he was definitely determined to ruin me. And I walked straight into it with open eyes. If I hadn’t been so devastated by everything else happening around me I might have suspected something, maybe thought things through for more than a second. But when I got the parcel and saw his name, all I felt was relief that there still was someone who truly understood how I felt and that he was giving me this solution to forget everything with the aid of narcotics. It wasn’t until later that I understood how diabolical that was. When I was under the influence and unable to rid myself of the habit he came to visit me.”  
He sighed deeply and shuddered at the memory.   
“He came when I had left Mycroft’s house for good. After the court had sentenced Magnussen, when everything was more or less over. Except for me. I had just begun. Mycroft was livid when he found out but I didn’t care, I just left and that’s when Moriarty resurfaced again. He found me in an opium den by the docks, brought me to a house where he kept me for a night, too lost in addiction to really understand anything but I remember fragments of the conversation we had. He blamed me for everything that had transpired, he was like a totally different person, angry, poisonous but more importantly, he showed more of his true self this time and it was not a nice person at all. During the years he has made small appearances, mostly when I’ve been too off my head with narcotics, sometimes making me doubt he isn’t just a fragment of a drug induced fantasy. During one of those instances I stumbled over the fact he now is a criminal. I saw that painting for example, The Georgiana, hanging in his house but like he told us this evening, I was unable to do anything about it at the time, all that really mattered back then was my addiction.”  
“How did you know that it was stolen?”  
“Please. I know just about everything there is to know about criminal history and the theft of that painting wasn’t even that long ago. He knew that I knew and he made I point of showing it to me just to see me react but also knowing that I was incapable of doing anything about it. A reminder perhaps of what I had always wanted to be but had failed to accomplish, choosing drugs instead. I know that he still has it, but I have been unable to find my way back to his house again.”  
“But if he has performed his revenge and saw you sink into addiction, what was tonight about? You’ll hardly fall for the same trick twice?”  
“As long as I was an addict I was of no danger to him, just entertainment value if even that. But when I finally decided to shape up, start my career as a detective , there was suddenly a new situation. Over the years I have managed to piece together small facts about him, such as his conversion to the criminal world, but what I didn’t see then but have managed to see as time has progressed is how he probably always was more or less a criminal even before. He had things in his possession no ordinary professor would have a reason to own. He came from a simple background and the salary of his profession was not very high, yet he had artefacts that spoke of some wealth. He also had knowledge that I have now come to see as being evidence of his darker side. Like I said, I was too young then to put everything together, but I think he was grooming me to become an accomplice eventually. “  
“And then his plans were ruined when you got caught in the morgue and expelled from school?”  
“Yes. I don’t think he would really have managed to persuade me to join him on the wrong side of the law, however grateful I was for his company, but he probably saw months of training go down the drain as well as having his name tarnished by scandal. I have stumbled upon him during my time as a detective, but it’s always just whispers, never anything substantial. He’s like a shadow, his presence is there, and we know of each other, but I can never catch him doing anything.”

I bent forward in my chair to get a better look at his face. It was late in the evening now and I was beginning to feel tired but at the same time I needed to hear all of it. Sherlock looked equally tired, eyes huge and dark. He drew a hand thoughtlessly through his silky curls when talking about the hopelessness of trying to catch the professor in the act. He looked like he had spent many hours contemplating just how to achieve that but so far he wasn’t coming to any conclusions. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.   
“And now he wants what exactly?”  
Sherlock shrugged.  
“He has never really let go of me, he is very territorial. I’m assuming he has heard of you, that we now share rooms together and maybe he thinks there is something else going on, who knows. But he’s not going to accept you in my life. We still have a game going even if the rules have changed. Where we used to stand together we are now on opposite sides. But the game is still very much alive, and he probably doesn’t want anyone interfering.”  
I looked at him closely because this was the first time he acknowledged the prospect of there being anything between him and me, however vague. I saw my opportunity to ask what I had kept wondering ever since our kiss.  
“And is there? Anything between us I mean?”  
He tilted his head and met my eyes without saying anything. But he didn’t look happy, quite the contrary.  
“Have you not been paying attention?” he finally said. “Relations with me equals danger for whoever dares it. It doesn’t matter if I am tempted, I’m not putting anyone through anything ever again.”

I could hear the sincerity in his voice, he truly believed being with him meant putting the other person in harms way. There was no persuading him, I knew enough about him to know how stubborn he was. But so was I. I was not going to let a begrudging old professor with a criminal record and too much unresolved history with my flatmate to stand in my way of getting what I wanted. I might be selfish for thinking this way but to an extent I had put my love life on hold for too long and when I finally found Sherlock again I wasn’t going to be scared off by anyone, least of all Sherlock’s ghosts from the past. So I did the only thing I could think of at that moment. I rose from my chair, walked up to him where he was sitting and took his hand. In one swift motion I pulled him up to a standing position and then leaned forward and pressed my lips against his soft ones. A second later I felt him response and as I was falling deeper into the kiss I felt his fingers trace through my hair as he opened his lips and let my tongue glide in to his mouth. The last thing I heard was an appreciative moan as my tongue touched his.   
Then the world exploded.


	20. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flat has been under attack and Sherlock goes missing

When I came through I was lying on the floor. The room was in a mess with pieces of broken glass all over the floor, remnants from the windows that had all been blown up and at first I couldn’t remember what had happened. I felt a splitting headache and reached my hand up to touch my forehead to feel for any wounds as I unsteadily tried to get up on my feet. I had a sharp ringing noise in my ears and at first I couldn’t for the life of me understand what had happened or remember anything. But as I managed to rise and got a full view of the room a thought suddenly struck me and I in panicked and twisted around to scan the area.   
Sherlock.  
But beside myself the room was empty.   
I scrambled forward to what remained of the windows and looked down but was only met by a crowd of curious and horrified onlookers standing as dark shadows under the street lights, immediately starting to point in my direction and talk amongst themselves with upset voices when spotting my silhouette. A little bit further away down the street I saw our landlady, Mrs Hudson, wringing her hands as she was talking to a police officer. She seemed unharmed at least and as I turned my attention to our living room again I noticed that although the room was in chaos I couldn’t really figure out what had actually happened. And where Sherlock had gone.  
I was just about to shout his name in the hopes he might still be in the building somewhere when the door suddenly opened and a large man with a beard followed by two constables barged inside the room. The bearded man immediately started scanning the surroundings with his eyes while he presented himself as Detective Inspector Jones.   
“Are you Doctor John Watson or Mr Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Doctor Watson.”  
Before I could say anything further he strode forward and ended up in front of the mantlepiece. It was all blackened, a fact I, in my initial confusion, hadn’t noticed and beside it lay a bucket, clearly used to put out a fire that had ravaged the wall above the fireplace.   
“Where you in the room when the explosion hit, Sir?” Jones asked without looking at me, bending down to use the fire iron to poke through the ashes. He was soon rewarded by extracting half a bottle from inside the fireplace and held it in his hand as he finally turned to face me.  
“Explosion?” I began because my memory was very hazy at the moment. I looked around in bewilderment again because even if the room looked like it had been turned upside down it didn’t really seem likely that an explosion had occurred. For one thing I was still alive and Sherlock most probably was also, even if he wasn’t there at the moment to prove it.   
“A man was seen throwing flaming bottles through both windows. As evidenced by this blackened wall one of them must have hit the fireplace. Lucky you had this bucket of water nearby. At least I’m assuming that’s how you stopped the fire from spreading?”   
“I wouldn’t know. I lost consciousness and just woke up a minute ago.”  
Detective Jones stepped forward and gave me a scrutinizing look before raising his hand to point to my head.   
“That’s quite the injury, it’s going to be bruise terribly. Must have been where the other bottle hit then. But I don’t see it around anywhere? And how come it didn’t set the rest of the room on fire?”  
I blinked at him like an owl, not really keeping up with what the man was saying. My injury was probably contributing to my confusion but the last thing I remembered was kissing Sherlock, followed by what sounded like a glass shattering noise and then darkness. Now I had woken up with an apparently dreadful bruise on my head, a flat in chaos, three investigating policemen in front of me and Sherlock missing. Just as I was about to open my mouth to at least seem to be making an effort to participate in the conversation there were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and the next shock of a long line of shocking events this evening appeared in the doorway.   
Grazing the entrance to our living room was a person I hadn’t seen for 10 years and actually never really expected to see ever again, considering what Sherlock had told me about the man earlier.   
“Where is my brother?” he commanded with a voice used to getting his way and everyone in the room gave him their full attention now. Even Detective Jones with all his gravitas straightened his back a little.  
Mycroft Holmes was a much larger man than he had been back at Donnithorpe. Still the same imposing presence and if possible even more calculating coldness in his features, he had put on a lot of weight over the years but carried the bulk with such dignity that he just managed to look self-importantly daunting instead of ridiculous. The hair had thinned out even more and he looked far older than the 34 years I knew him to be. I didn’t really know how life had treated him after the events at Donnithorpe, except for the small tidbits Sherlock and Gregory had given me but judging by his attire and the body mass he seemed to be doing fine, the clothes were even more impeccable now than they had been back then och he carried a gold tipped cane in his right hand. The only thing marring his appearance at the moment was the hint of worry in his eyes. It was almost not visible but for me, who had seen the whole facial register the man owned knew worry when seeing it. I felt quite the same actually. Even if the lack of a body in the room meant that the attack hadn’t killed him I couldn’t understand what could have happened to Sherlock. Had he been kidnapped? Had he simply disappeared? Or worse, had he run after the culprits, leaving me behind? I was the only one with a gun and the knowledge to use it, and while he was tall and stronger than appearing to be, it was foolish to just run after a criminal like that and a lot of scenarios of him getting injured flashed through my head as Detective Jones surpassed me to extend his hand to Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft ignored the offered hand and looked past the man, pinning me with an icy stare.  
“Well?” he demanded.  
“Excuse me, but who are you? This is a possible crime scene or at least a scene of an attack and me and my men are investigating the events. If you would be so kind as to introduce yourself and your business here or kindly leave the premise.”  
“My brother lives here. I have every reason to remain where I am until I know that he is alright. John, would you be so kind as to inform me where he is?”  
We hadn’t spoken since that evening Victor Trevor died and to have his full attention sparked something inside me, akin to irritation, almost rage. Who did he think he was?  
“As you well can see he isn’t here and neither do I know where he is. Believe me, I would just as much like to know his whereabouts, but as the Detective said, this is a possible crime scene now and my main concern is to find Sherlock. Better for you to leave actually, you know the way. The same way you came from.”  
I nodded at him dismissively and I could see his eyes narrow in disbelief at my tone, but I couldn’t be bothered with his arrogant ways any longer. I was an adult now and as far as I was concerned he was an interference.  
“Excuse me, but who are you two talking about? The other resident? The landlady said there are two gentlemen living here,” Detective Jones interrupted before Mycroft could vent his displeasure at my words.  
“Obviously. Who else would we be talking about? The attacker perhaps?” he replied instead and stepped inside despite my dark look his way. I wasn’t about to forcibly make him leave as long as the police was in the same room. Had we been on our own it might have been a different matter though.   
Detective Jones gestured to his constables to start searching the room for the missing bottle and other clues while he turned to myself and Mycroft.  
“If you would be so kind as to tell us what you know Doctor Watson and then we can see if Mr Holmes’s whereabouts might seem a little clearer afterwards. “  
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much. I woke up just a couple a minutes ago and by then the room was already in this state, my room mate was gone and then you arrived. I have now idea what caused this or who is behind it. Mr Holmes works as a consulting detective…”  
“A what?”  
Suddenly the detective’s features furrowed in suspicion, as if the very notion that someone outside of the police was sharing a similar title to him.   
“He helps solving cases that clients come to him with, asking for his help.”  
“That is not the work of a civilian. That’s what the police are for.”  
I was beginning to lose my temper with everyone in the room right now and answered him more sharply than first intending to.  
“Nevertheless, that is what he does. People seek him out, sometimes when the police have failed to help them.”  
But Jones was having none of that and to my raising irritation just scoffed sardonically.  
“Hardly. If the police have judged things to be unsolvable they are. Is he some sort of charlatan? Could that be why he was targeted? If so the picture suddenly seems much clearer about what transpired here. That could also explain the man’s disappearance.”  
“No! You aren’t listening. He helps people and sure, that could very well be the reason why this happened, he occasionally offends a criminal or two in his line of work, but I don’t think this is related to the work this time.”  
“And why is that? A second ago you didn’t remember anything at all? What were you doing before the attack? Was he here then?”  
While Jones had focused on me Mycroft had stood quietly, listening to us both, but now his attention was directed at his surroundings. The constables were methodically searching the room, but it was obvious that no bottle was going to be found. Mycroft seemed to inwardly sigh at their incompetence. In that moment there was actually a small resemblance to his brother, the same disdainful glint in the eye when faced with stupidity.   
“The minutes before the explosion we were having a conversation. He was telling me some information from his past.”  
I wasn’t really sure how far I wanted to go with the details. The detective hadn’t yet put the name Sherlock Holmes in connection to the scandalous Magnussen trial but if reminded of it he would probably become even more hostile then he already was. Considering that Mycroft was also shooting daggers my way I wasn’t willing to put up with any more unfriendliness right now. My main concern was to find out what had happened to Sherlock and then the reason for the attack came in second. I had a creeping suspicion that Moriarty might have been behind it although I couldn’t justify that suspicion with any facts. Sherlock would have scoffed at me if I had said that I based my suspicion on a gut feeling.   
“What sort of information was that?”  
Now it was Mycroft’s turn to speak and I could see the detective’s irritation at getting interrupted while questioning me.  
“About Moriarty,” I answered plainly and saw Mycroft stiffen slightly.  
“And why was that?”  
“Because he came by earlier this evening.”  
“Really?” Mycroft sounded astonished but also skeptical. “That man hasn’t been seen in person for years and now you’re telling me that he showed up here tonight?”  
“He came in disguise. As a client. But Sherlock recognized him somehow.”  
“And what did he want?”  
“When found out he laughed at first but then he turned threatening. He warned Sherlock off in a way. I’m not sure exactly what the purpose of the visit was, but they have a history as you very well know.”  
“Who is this Moriarty you’re talking about?”  
Detective Jones was tired of being ignored by us any further and tried to regain control again.   
“A very dangerous man. The fact that you as a man of Scotland Yard is not even aware of his existence is the best proof of just how good he is at what he does, “Mycroft muttered. “This is bad news. Far worse than I could have expected.”  
“What do you mean?” I asked.  
“If Moriarty has risked exposure by appearing here tonight and an attack is launched the very same night it means he is very determined in his intensions.”  
“And what are those?” Jones asked while dread was beginning to creep up my spine.  
“To destroy my brother once and for all. Some sort of line has been crossed and he is retaliating violently.”  
I thought of the kiss Sherlock and I had shared. Had Moriarty been watching or was it pure accident that the attack happened straight after? Despite my slight dizziness I still remembered Sherlock responding to the kiss and who knew what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.   
But my main issue right now was finding him again. If the attack was Moriarty’s doing, anything seemed possible, especially after Mycroft’s word about him being a very dangerous man. As the police seemed utterly clueless about what to do I turned to Mycroft expectantly and gave him the question that was on everyone mind at the moment.  
“So. What do we do now?”


	21. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing time for the duo they were and an opening for a new dynamic.

After Jones left I was finding myself alone with Mycroft, still occupying the living room. He had seated himself on the couch, the cane between his legs and an expectant look in his eyes.  
“Well, now when we’re rid of that imbecile of a detective inspector we might actually get started on locating the whereabouts of my brother. But first I would like you to fill in some gaps for me.”  
I sighed and remained standing by the window, facing him but determined not to be bullied by him in my own house. It had been a long time since he had been able to bring fear in me, as an adult I was wise enough to know that I could stand my ground against this man if needed.   
“So would I, Mycroft. This evening has been full of revelations and some have actually involved you and you actions. So how about I start with my questions and you can go next, considering this is my house and my flatmate is the one who is missing.”  
“Sherlock is my brother, I believe that strikes higher than a flatmate…”  
“Mycroft! Either do as I say or get out. It’s been a long night and I don’t have the patience for any games. I’m tired and worried about Sherlock, as am sure you are as well to some degree. If Moriarty has him we need to do something, but I don’t have enough information about this. Who is he really?”  
Mycroft pursed hip lips in annoyance, probably vexed that he was being spoken to in the manner that I did, but I couldn’t care less at the moment. My head was throbbing from the blow and I felt exhausted, but more than anything I was worried for Sherlock’s sake.   
“I’m not sure what Sherlock has told you. But Moriarty is trying his best to be the ruin of my brother, at least nowadays. Before, back at school, I honestly don’t know what his agenda was, maybe he was just a genius drawn to another genius, content to play stupid mindgames together, but it ended badly for both of them, and Sherlock has been a thorn in that man’s side ever since.”  
“Does he blame Sherlock for being fired?”  
“Who knows? The man is insane as far as I can tell, highly unstable and yet very powerful in his own way. He might have dabbled in his criminal career even back then, but it was hardly the booming enterprise it is now. The man has his fingers in almost every major criminal situation this country has suffered from during the last five years. At least. And as you know, Sherlock, never one to resist the most difficult cases when brought to his attention, has been standing on the opposite side of Moriarty’s business ever since. The man has an unhealthy obsession with my brother, sworn to take him down and at the same time enjoying their sparring. There is no reasoning with him, one of them is going to end up dead one day, mark my words, and preferably I would see that Sherlock is not that one. “  
“Is that why you spy on him? Have him followed?”  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow scathingly but rearranged his features to his normal bland settings again.  
“I don’t spy on him per se…”  
“It’s what he told me.”  
“Yes, I can see that he sees it that way. But it’s out of precaution. He is my brother after all and my only remaining family member. I worry about him, that’s only natural. And with the added danger of James Moriarty out there, of course I would do anything to help him. But he won’t allow me to interfere.”  
“Can you blame him? After everything that happened before? With Magnussen and Victor.”  
“That wasn’t my fault.”  
“But it wasn’t his either. Magnussen was the one who chose to shoot Victor and yet you couldn’t stop pestering Sherlock about the scandal that followed. Where was you concern then I wonder?”  
Mycroft continued to scrutinize me silently, it was impossible to ascertain what he was thinking but he wasn’t taken aback by my confrontation at least. I was just about to open my mouth to continue speaking when the heavy slamming of the door downstairs interrupted me and we both turned our attention to the footsteps rapidly running up the stairs towards us. The next second he was standing there, in front of us, hair in disarray, eyes shining brightly and some color on his normally pale cheeks.  
I rushed forward and took both his arms in mine before hugging him tightly. The solidity of his body was reassuring in a way, I knew that he was safe now.   
Mycroft remained seated where he was and when I finally released my grip on Sherlock he frowned when discovering his brother’s presence.  
“What is he doing here?” he wined and made an exasperated gesture.  
“As welcoming as always I hear,” Mycroft mumbled but there was a hint of relief in his eyes at least.  
Sherlock glared at him and his brother took that as a clue to begin his departure. Slowly he rose from where he was sitting, adjusting imagined creases on his clothes. As he finally spoke he didn’t really look at Sherlock.  
“I was concerned about you. When I heard that there had been an explosion on Baker Street I just knew it must have something to do with you. I came here as fast as I could.”   
He hesitated but then rose his eyes, so he was looking straight at his brother again.  
“That is your general modus operandi after all, wherever you are situated mayhem is bound to follow.”   
Sherlock let out a snarky noise but didn’t otherwise answer his brother.   
I decided to intervene before anyone said something irreparable.  
“Where have you been? And what happened here tonight? I woke up and you were gone and then the police came knocking and straight after Mycroft came. It feels like I was being trapped in a never-ending nightmare to be honest.”  
Sherlock scoffed.  
“I can understand that. Suffering the company of both Scotland Yard and my brother would be enough for any man.”  
“Sherlock…”  
“What? Just stating a fact.”  
“You’re transgressing, little brother.”  
Sherlock turned his attention from me to Mycroft again.  
“I don’t see why you have to be here and listen in on something that doesn’t concern you. Not that it has ever stopped you before. but if not for my sake, at least think of poor John. He’s been under attack and left with insufferable company afterwards, the man needs some privacy and possibly a strong drink to cool his nerves. As you waddled all the way up here I’m sure it won’t be a problem to descend the same stairs on your way out.”  
For a second it looked as if Mycroft was about so say something, but the moment passed and finally he took a firmer grip of his cane and nodded towards us before going in the direction of the door. As he passed his younger brother he gave him an enigmatic look but whatever he had wanted to say remained unspoken.  
We waited for the sound of the door closing behind him downstairs before Sherlock sprung to life and in a few quick paces drew the curtains in front of our broken window before spinning around to face me.   
“Just as I suspected. Moriarty is stepping up the game because of your appearance on the scene. It might also have been that jewel theft last week that we put an end to, he lost quite a lot of money when that crime fell through, but my guess is that he is vexed by your presence in my life. “  
“Did the attack have anything to do with what we did just before it?”  
“No, not even he could have predicted that kiss. My theory is that he came here to play his stupid masquerade game with me, but he had his men ready outside. They probably attacked as soon as he had put a significant distance between himself and this place, just so no-one could accuse him of being a part of the attack.”  
“But what happened to you? You were gone when I woke up?”  
“You were hit by one of the bottles, luckily one that wasn’t on fire. The other one hit our mantelpiece, Mrs Hudson is going to have a fit when she sees the wall. As soon as I managed to put the fire out and made sure that you were aright, just momentarily unconscious, I ran outside and fortunately for me one of the culprits was still standing by, a little further down the street, probably admiring his handywork and not expecting anyone to come out of the house to chase him down. Needless to say, he assumed wrong. I chased him for quite a while but when I eventually caught him he refused to talk. I handed him to the police, but he won’t tell them anything, the fear of Moriarty’s revenge is too severe. The few people I have managed to catch during the cases that involve him have all been scared senseless and refusing to communicate more than small snippets of information. He is very thorough with his employment, you’re lucky to survive standing in is way. Most people don’t.”  
“Did he mean to kill us tonight?”  
“No. He would have succeeded if he really wanted to. This was just to scare us I think. Or you rather. He doesn’t know you.”  
The last words were said with a smirk and I couldn’t help grinning back. The confidence Sherlock had in my courage was warming.   
“So, what now?”  
“Nothing to do at the moment. Not yet. He has shown his hand and so will we. Together we will chase him down eventually or die trying. Personally, I think a death under the age of 30 is unacceptable so it will have to be the first alternative. It won’t be easy, and this attack was mild in comparison to what he is capable of doing, but together I’m sure that we will succeed.”   
“So… this is what you want then?” I hesitated, unsure if he was talking about us as crimefighters or if the kiss was the thing that had sealed the deal for him.  
“What do you mean?” He looked at me, slightly puzzled.  
“Us. You and me? I kissed you and I’m fairly sure that you kissed me back, but we were interrupted quite thoroughly, and I don’t know if this is something you really want. I have loved you for a long time, since the first time I saw you really, so I am very sure of my feelings for you, even if I have spent a considerable amount of time trying to suppress those feeling.”  
He looked even more perplexed now.  
“What for?”  
“Because I was afraid that you didn’t feel the same way. That in your eyes I was forever going to be that messenger-boy who delivered notes between you and Victor ten years ago. That if you knew that I loved you, you would consider that a hindrance for us to keep living together. Because I was afraid that you were going to leave. Or rather make me leave, seeing as you were here first.”  
Sherlock stared at me for the longest time, as if watching a really complex puzzle unravel in front of him and I could feel sweat starting to appear in both my armpits, suddenly feeling nervous under his gaze.   
“After everything you witnessed at Donnithorpe and how, as Mycroft so very eloquently put it: mayhem is bound to follow in my wake, I was grateful for you even wanting to be in my presence, let alone work with me, by my side as you have so loyally done since moving in with me. For most people I'm simply not worth the effort, I never expected you to feel anything akin to love and I was content with that, not sure that anything more could ever be on offer. So, when you kissed me tonight I was certainly taken aback, because it was unexpected. But when you did it the second time, I wasn’t going to let the opportunity to respond slip by. The only reason why we’re still standing here talking is because a pair of bottles interrupted us. One of them on fire, the other one knocking you out.”   
“A fact that can easily be remedied. If you want? “I answered, stepping up to him. I snaked my arm around his slim waist and pulled him close to me and I could see his eyes lowering to look at my mouth expectantly. But before I granted him his wish I put my hand under his chin, forcing him to look me in the eyes.  
“It won’t be easy. You are the most infuriating, irritating, sometimes self-absorbed, childish, impatient, stubborn, danger-defying person I have ever met, but God have mercy on me for saying this: I love you Sherlock Holmes. “  
“Not really a very romantic description of someone you claim to love, doctor Watson,” Sherlock pouted but I just shook my head.  
“But true nonetheless. If we are facing the threat of Moriarty I’m glad that we’re doing it together. “  
“Wouldn’t want it any other way.”  
And with that Sherlock Holmes was tired of waiting any longer, so he leaned in close and kissed me.   
A second later I responded.


End file.
